isSaMRLF 


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T.IRRARV 

OK  THK 

University  of  California. 

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BACON  AND  SHAKESPEAEE 

IN  THE  SONNETS. 


All  rights  reserved. 


BACON  AND  SHAOSPEAKE 


15^  THE   SONNETS, 


BY 


H.   L.  HOSMER. 


'^^   0?  THB     * 


UKI7ERSIT 


SAN    FRANCISCO: 
THE    BANCROFT    COMPANY. 

188  7. 


Capyrigid  1887, 
By  H.  L.  Hosmer. 


M/nAJ 


TO 
MY  DEAR  WIFE. 

For  "Thou  Art  All  the  Better  Tart:  of  Me. 


PREFACE. 


The  writer  of  the  '^Advertisement  of  the 
American  Publishers"  of  the  Works  of  Francis 
Bacon,  as  the  highest  eulogy  that  could  be  pro- 
nounced upon  the  merits  of  the  illustrious 
author,  writes: — 

"In  many  respects  Bacon  resembles  his  im- 
mortal contemporary,  Shakespeare.  Like  Shake- 
speare, he  enjoyed  the  most  splendid  reputation 
for  genius  and  ability  in  his  lifetime;  like  him, 
he  was  comparatively  undervalued  and  neglected 
for  ages  after  his  death;  and  like  him,  in  the 
present  refined  and  severely  scrutinizing  era,  he 
has  been  tried  in  the  hottest  furnace  of  criti- 
cism, and  has  come  forth  pure  gold,  whose 
weight,  solidity,  and  brilliancy  can  never  here- 
after be  for  a  moment  doubted.  It  is  said  of 
Shakespeare  that  his  fertile  genius  exhausted 
the  whole  world  of  nature.  As  a  poet,  he  has 
undoubtedly  done  this;  and  Lord  Bacon,  as  a 
philosopher,  has  done  the  same." 

The  similarity  in  the  writings  which  are  given 
to  us  as  the  works  of  Bacon  and  Shakespeare  has 
received  the  notice  of  critics  and  scholars  of 
every   generation    since    their    first    appearance, 


8  PREFACE. 

nearly  three  centuries  ago;  but  a  lady  of  our 
own  country  was  the  first  to  intimate  that  the  • 
dramas  attributed  to  Shakespeare  were  writ- 
ten by  Lord  Bacon.  Much  controversy  among 
writers  has  since  occurred,  and  the  investiga- 
tions incident  thereto  have  involved  the  ques- 
tion in  so  much  doubt,  that  the  interest  in  its 
solution  will  exhaust  all  conflicting  resources 
before  it  will  be  satisfied.  As  a  practical  ques- 
tion it  may  prove  of  little  benefit  to  the  world 
to  know  whether  Bacon  was  or  was  not  the 
author;  but  if  this  form  of  judgment  were  ap- 
plied to  all  the  questions  of  the  day,  how  many 
would  exceed  this  one  in  importance?  There 
is  certainly  an  opportunity  here  for  doing  a  long- 
delayed  act  of  justice  to  the  memory  of  one  of  the 
greatest  benefactors  of  our  race,  or  of  silencing 
the  doubts  and  suspicions  which  are  gather- 
ing around  the  venerated  name  of  another.  If 
the  evidence  should  irrefutably  destroy  the  idol 
we  have  so  long  worshipped,  would  the  satisfac- 
tion be  less  complete  in  acknowledging  Bacon 
than  Shakespeare?  Shall  the  sentiment  which 
so  long  has  hallowed  the  shrine  of  Shakespeare 
be  protected,  and  the  world  remain  disabused, 
or  the  memory  of  Bacon  be  rescued,  and  truth 
be  established? 


PREFACE.  9 

I  ask  for  a  careful  perusal  of  the  interpretation 
of  the  Sonnets.  Undoubtedly  the  poem  will  be 
found  to  contain  many  facts  in  the  lives  of  both 
Bacon  and  Shakespeare  that  have  escaped  my 
notice.  If  those  which  I  have  discovered  can- 
not be  refuted,  or  if  the  Sonnets  themselves  are 
not  capable  of  a  more  reasonable  interpretation, 
then  enough  has  been  told  to  put  the  supporters 
of  Shakespeare  upon  their  defense. 

The  Sonnets  were  undoubtedly  written  for  the 
purpose  of  conveying  to  future  ages  the  true  his- 
tory of  the  dramas.  The  Key,  and  the  seemingly 
surreptitious  publication  and  inexplicable  dedica- 
tion of  them,  were  ingeniously  devised  to  conceal 
their  meaning  from  contemporary  readers.  That 
they  have  remained  so  long,  and  been  subjected 
to  so  many  variant  criticisms  without  comprehen- 
sible interpretation,  is  chargeable  to  the  fact  that 
every  writer  accepted  them  and  criticised  them  as 
the  history  of  the  loves  of  Shakespeare. 

For   a   further  and   fuller  explanation   of  the 

reasons  governing  their  publication,  I  refer  the 

reader    to   the    interpretations    themselves.     The 

most  I  have  aspired  to  accomplish  is  to  aid  in 

discovering  the  truth. 

H.  L.  H. 

San  Francisco,  October,  1887. 


KEY 


Tliou  and  Thine 
Thy  and  Thee  . 
Thyself  .  .  . 
You  and  Your  . 
Yourself  .  .  . 
I,  My,  Mine,  Me 
Myself  .  .  . 
My  Love  .  . 
My  Friend  .  . 
^ly  Mistress 


Impersonation  of  Truth. 

**  "  Thought  in  the  abstract. 

**  **   Thought  in  delineation. 

**  **   Beauty  in  the  abstract. 

**  "  Beauty  in  delineation. 

**  **  Bacon  in  person. 

"  "   Bacon  as  author. 

"  *'  The  dramas. 

'*  "   Shakespeare. 

**  **  Tragedy. 


BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

IN  THE   SONNETS. 


All  critical  writers  who  recognize  Shakespeare 
as  the  author  of  these  Sonnets  have  given  them  a 
literal  interpretation.  Let  us  suppose  that  they 
were  written  by  Lord  Bacon  with  the  intention  of 
disclosing,  through  the  various  forms  of  analogy, 
allegory,  metaphor,  and  symbolism,  all  the  real 
facts  concerning  the  composition  of  the  works  at- 
tributed to  Shakespeare,  the  reason  for  transfer- 
ring the  authorship  to  him,  and  the  manner  in 
which  it  was  done.  This  is  exactly  the  informa- 
tion to  be  derived  from  this  poem:  — 

Sonnet  1. 
From  fairest  creatures  we  desire  increase, 
That  thereby  beauty's  rose  might  never  die. 
But  as  the  riper  should  by  time  decease, 
His  tender  heir  might  bear  his  memory; 
But  Thou,  contracted  to  Thine  own  bright  eyes, 
Feed'st  Thy  light's  flame  with  self -substantial  fuel. 
Making  a  famine  where  abundance  lies, 
Thyself  Thy  foe,  to  Thy  sweet  self  too  cruel. 
Thou,  that  art  now  the  world's  fresh  ornament, 
And  only  herald  to  the  gaudy  spring. 


14  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Within  Thine  own  bud  buriest  Thy  content, 
And,  tender  churl,  mak'st  waste  in  niggarding. 
Pity  the  world,  or  else  this  glutton  be. 
To  eat  the  world's  due,  by  the  grave  and  Thee. 

■>> 

In  natural  reasoning,  we  incline  to  subjects  that 
are  fair,  pleasant,  and  good,  and  against  such  as 
are  painful  and  bad  in  themselves.  Of  all  sub- 
jects, whether  animate  or  inanimate,  nothing  is 
fairer  in  contemplation  than  Truth.  It  unravels 
mystery,  exposes  error,  disarms  falsehood,  and  en- 
lightens the  world.  AUegorically,  Truth  being 
the  '*  fairest "  of  all  "creatures,"  we  desire  increase 
from  him,  that  *^  beauty's  rose,"  which  is  "  his  ten- 
der heir,"  may  never  die. 

in  a  passive  state.  Truth  is  contracted  within 
itself;  its  "bright  eyes"  (powers  of  observation) 
are  closed  to  all  around;  its  "  light's  flame  "  (its 
Thought,  power  of  production)  is  fed  upon  con- 
cealment. The  world  famishes  for  want  of  its 
abundance.  It  is  a  foe  to  Thought,  and  to  its  sweet 
thoughts  (its  revealed  beauty)  it  is  "  too  cruel." 

Truth,  when  in  process  of  development,  is  al- 
ways "the  world's  fresh  ornament,"  and  always 
the  "only  herald"  of  a  spring  or  youth  in  its  new 
discoveries. 

If  it  buries  itself,  —  is  content  to  remain  inac- 
tive, —  it  is  like  a  churl  or  miser,  who,  by  denying 
» himself,  robs  the  world  of  its  dues. 

The  author  begins  this  stanza  with  an  address 
to  "Thou"  (Truth),  "that   art  now  the   world's 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  15 

fresh  oruament,  and  only  herald  to  the  gaudy 
spring." 

Truth,  at  the  time  this  was  written,  was  "fresh," 
not  new  to  the  world.  The  first  great  manifesta- 
tion of  the  revival  of  letters,  after  centuries  of 
slumber,  was  during  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  That 
was  emphatically  ''the  gaudy  spring"  of  philoso- 
phy, poetry,  and  literature.  The  pioneer  among 
the  writers  of  that  age,  who  advocated  Truth  as 
the  foundation  of  happiness  and  progress,  was 
Lord  Bacon.  He  foresaw  that  without  Truth,  the 
glory  of  his  own  day  would  fade,  and  the  world 
again  lapse  into  ignorance.  Hence  originated  the 
leading  idea  of  the  first  seventeen  sonnets.  Sid- 
ney, Spenser,  Raleigh,  and  a  host  of  play-writers 
besides,  had  produced  many  beautiful  essays  and 
poems;  but  they  were  merely  beautiful,  and  devel- 
oping no  great  truth,  could  have  little  or  no  effect 
in  shaping  the  taste  or  judgment  of  the  age.  Ifc 
was  for  Bacon,  philosopher  as  well  as  poet,  to  com- 
bine Truth  and  Beauty  in  a  form  so  attractive  as 
to  render  them  indestructible. 

The  closing  couplet  of  the  first  stanza, — 

•*  Pity  the  world,  or  else  this  glutton  be, 
To  eat  the  world's  due,  by  the  grave  and  Tkee, " 

means  that  the  world  needed  not  only  such  truth 
as  the  age  itself  could  produce,  but  a  reproduction , 
also,  of  those  truths  so  long  buried  in  the  "  grave 
of  the    Middle  Ages.     The  writers   of  antiquity 
must  be  invoked  to  give  their  investigations  and 


16  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

discoveries  afresh  to  the  world,  that  modern  writ- 
ers might  be  inspired  with  their  love  of  wisdom 
and  learning,  and  lead  to  new  triumphs  in  the 
development  of  truth. 

In  the  semblance  of  a  young  man  whom  he 
wishes  to  persuade  into  an  early  marriage,  that  he 
may  thereby  perpetuate  himself  in  his  posterity, 
the  author  urges  Thou  (Truth)  to  perform  some 
labor  for  the  world  of  enduring  value.  These 
impersonations  of  Thou  as  Truth,  and  Thy  as 
Thought,  continued  to  the  close  of  the  poem,  are 
first  alternated  with  "  You,''  the  impersonation  of 
''Beauty,"  in  the  thirteenth  stanza.  That  and  the 
fourteenth,  fifteenth,  and  sixteenth  are  addressed 
to  You  (Beauty),  changing  the  attributes  to  suit 
the  office  he  is  expected  to  perform  in  conjunction 
with  Thou  and  Thy.  Indeed,  so  closely  is  the  lead- 
ing idea  of  marriage,  for  the  purpose  of  perpetuity, 
l)ursued  through  the  first  seventeen  Sonnets,  that 
the  distinction  between  Thou,  Thy,  and  You 
(Truth,  Thought,  and  Beauty)  has  escaped  for 
centuries  the  careful  observation  of  the  most  ac- 
complished critics.  The  opinion  generally  enter- 
tained is,  that  the  object  of  the  author  was  to 
persuade  a  young  nobleman  to  marry.  However 
the  Sonnets,  as  a  whole,  might  be  divided  to  suit 
the  theories  formed  of  them,  this  with  most  writers 
is  deemed  the  leading  object. 

Mr.  Richard  Grant  White,  in  his  introduction 
to  the  Sonnets,  gives  the  following  concise  state- 


TN  THE  SONNETS,  yj 

ment  of  some  of  the  many  conjectures  of  writers 
concerning  their  object: — 

"  Farmer  thought,  or  rather  guessed,  that  they 
were  written  to  William  Hart,  the  poet's  nephew. 
Tyrwhitt  suggested  that  the  line, — 

*A  man  in  Hue,  all  Hewes  in  hia  controlling, ' 

in  the  twentieth  Sonnet,  indicates  William  Hughes, 
or  Hews,  as  their  subject.  George  Chalmers  argued 
that  the  recipient  of  impassioned  adulation  which 
pervades  so  many  of  them  was  no  other  than  the 
virgin  Queen  Elizabeth  herself.  Dr.  Drake  sup- 
posed that  in  W.  H.  we  have  the  transposed  ini- 
tials of  Henry  Wriothesly,  Earl  of  Southampton; 
and  lastly,  Mr.  Bowden  brought  forward  William 
Herbert,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  as  the  beautiful  youth, 
the  dearly  loved  false  friend,  whose  reluctance  to 
marry,  and  whose  readiness  to  love  lightly  the 
wanton  and  alluring  woman  whom  the  poet  loved 
so  deeply,  were  the  occasion  of  these  mysterious 
and  impressive  poems. 

"  Mr.  Armitage  Brown  divides  the  Sonnets  into 
six  poems,  and  thus  designates  their  subjects:  — 

"First  poem,  —  Sonnets  1  to  26.  To  his  friend, 
persuading  him  to  marry. 

"Second  poem, — Sonnets  27  to  55.  To  his 
friend,  forgiving  him  for  having  robbed  him  of 
his  mistress. 

"Third  poem,  — Sonnets  56  to  77.  To  his 
friend,  complaining  of  his  coldness,  and  warning 
him  of  life's  decay. 

"Fourth  poem,  —  Sonnets  78  to  101.  To  his 
friend,  complaining  that  he  prefers  another  poet's 
praises,  and  reproving  him  for  faults  that  may 
injure  his  character. 

"Fifth  poem,  — Sonnets  102  to  126.     To  his 


18  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

friend,  excusing  himself  for  having  been  some 
time  silent,  and  disclaiming  the  charge  of  incon- 
stancy. 

"Sixth  poem,— Sonnets  127  to  152.  To  his 
mistress,  on  her  infidelity." 

Mr.  White  advances  the  opinion  that  "  some  of 
them  are  addressed  to  a  woman,  others  to  a  lad, 
others  to  a  man;  in  three  Shakespeare  speaks  un- 
mistakably of  himself  and  upon  subjects  purely 
personal,  and  the  last  two  are  merely  fanciful  and 
independent  productions." 

It  was  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Dyer  that  the  Sonnets 
were  composed  "in  an  assumed  character,  on  dif- 
ferent subjects  and  at  different  times." 

"Five  of  the  Sonnets,  Nos.  80,  83,  85,  86,  and 
121,"  Mr.  White  thinks  were  "  evidently  written 
to  be  presented  to  some  lady  who  had  verses  ad- 
dressed to  her  by  at  least  one  other  person  than 
the  supposed  writer  of  these,  for  the  praises  of 
another  poet  are  explicitly  mentioned  in  them." 
No.  78,  in  his  opinion,  was  addressed  to  one  "who 
was  the  theme  of  many  pens,  for  it  contains  these 
lines:  — 

'*  *  So  oft  have  I  invok'd  Thee  for  my  Muse, 
And  found  such  fair  assistance  in  my  verse. 
As  every  alien  pen  hath  got  my  use, 
And  under  thee  their  poesy  disperse; 

In  others'  works  thou  dost  but  mend  the  style. 
And  arts  with  thy  sweet  graces  graced  be.' " 

Not  only  these  lines,  but  the  entire  one  hundred 
and  fifty-four  stanzas,  are,  as  I  think,  perfectly  com- 
prehensible when  the  Key  is  used  to  unfold  their 
meaning.  Consider  Thee  as  the  impersonation 
of  Thought  in  the  foregoing  lines,  and  we  learn 


m  THE  SONNETS.  19 

simply  that  the  writer  has  been  so  successful  in 
the  delineation  of  Truth,  that  the  other  writers  of 
the  age  ("every  alien  pen")  are  emulous  of  simi- 
lar success,  and  are  adopting  Thought  as  a  basis 
for  their  poetry, — 

"Under  Thee  their  poesy  disperse." 

In  the  last  two  lines  he  intimates  that  in  this  at- 
tempt at  imitation  they  only  "mend  the  style"  of 
their  composition.  It  is  too  artificial  to  be  true  to 
nature,  but  is  nevertheless  graced  or  made  better 
by  the  attempt, — 

"And  arts  with  Thy  (Thought's)  sweet  graces  graced  be." 

All  the  incongruities,  entanglements,  and  intri- 
cacies of  the  poem,  by  application  of  the  Key,  be- 
come consistent,  and  in  proper  sequence,  from 
opening  to  close,  with  the  wonderful  history  they 
have  so  long  concealed.  The  poem  is  an  entire 
history. 

Sonnet  2. 
"When  forty  winters  shall  beseige  Thy  brow, 
And  dig  deep  trenches  in  Thy  beauty's  field, 
Thy  youth's  proud  livery,  so  gaz'd  on  now, 
Will  be  a  tatter 'd  weed,  of  small  worth  held; 
Then  being  ask'd  where  all  Thy  beauty  lies, 
Where  all  the  treasure  of  Thy  lusty  days, 
To  say,  within  Thine  own  deep-sunken  eyes. 
Were  an  all-eating  shame  and  thriftless  praise. 
How  much  more  praise  deserv'd  Thy  beauty's  use, 
If  Thou  couldst  answer,  "This  fair  child  of  mine 
Shall  sum  my  count  and  make  my  old  excuse," 
Proving  his  beauty  by  succession  Thine! 

This  were  to  be  new  made  when  Thou  art  old, 
And  see  Thy  blood  warm  when  Thou  feel'st  it  cold. 


20  BACOK  AKD  SHAKESPEARE 

The  meaning  sought  to  be  conveyed  by  the  poet 
in  this  stanza  is,  that  if  he  should  delay  revealing 
his  conception  of  Truth  until  he  was  forty  years 
old,  Time  would  then  have  destroyed  the  freshness 
and  exuberance  of  his  thoughts,  and  impaired  his 
power  to  delineate  beauty  as  he  saw  it  in  early  life. 
The  "proud  livery''  of  that  dawning  period  would 
be  faded  and  worn,  with  the  "deep  trenches"  of 
age  and  care,  and  the  "sunken  eye''  of  a  careless 
life  would  tell  of  the  "all-eating"  effects  of  neglect 
and  misuse.  "Thriftless  praise"  (barren  reward 
and  a  useless  life)  would  be  the  result.  If,  instead 
of  this,  he  could  show  by  his  work  some  "fair  child 
of  mine"  (that  he  had  produced  some  evidence  of 
his  genius),  that  would  "sum.  his  count"  (aflSrm 
the  promises  of  his  youth),  "and  make  my  old 
excuse"  (the  works  would  be  substituted  for  the 
"old  excuse"  he  had  habitually  given  for  his  neg- 
ligence), and  they  would  prove  also  his  power  of 
delineation.  In  these  works  he  would  be  recreated 
in  his  age,  and  witness  the  effect  of  his  labors, 
after  his  powers  were  exhausted. 

**  Thy  youth's  proud  livery,  so  gaz'd  on  now, 
Will  be  a  tatter'd  weed,  of  small  worth  held." 

The  "Promus  of  Lord  Bacon,"  compiled  by 
Mrs.  Pott,  and  published  a  few  years  ago,  is  but 
one  of  several  commonplace  books  found  among 
his  papers  after  his  decease.  It  is  composed  of 
aphorisms,  trite  sayings,  wise  mixims,  and  parts 
of  passages,  selected  without  any  apparent  object. 


TN-  THE  S02rNETS.  ^1 

from  the  writings  of  learned  men  of  antiquity,  and 
of  the  ages  preceding  that  of  Elizabeth.  Mrs.  Pott 
has  traced  the  analogy  in  many  instances  between 
these  disjointed  thoughts  and  passages  from  the 
dramas  attributed  to  Shakespeare,  in  which  they 
appear  in  more  gorgeous  dress;  and  thus  fur- 
nished a  strong  inferential  argument  in  favor  of 
the  Baconian  theory  of  authorship. 

This  ''youth's  proud  livery,"  which  w^uld  be  a 
"tatter'd  weed"  if  not  used  before  the  age  of  forty, 
was  the  Truth  as  set  forth  in  these  commonplace 
books,  elaborated  and  embellished  by  his  powers 
of  composition.  It  would  be  mere  'Hatters"  if 
unused. 

Sonnet  3^ 

Look  in  Thy  glass,  and  tell  the  face  Thou  viewest 

Now  is  the  time  that  face  should  form  another; 

Whose  fresh  repair,  if  now  Thou  not  renewest. 

Thou  dost  beguile  the  world,  unbless  some  mother; 

For  where  is  she  so  fair,  whose  unear'd  womb 

Disdains  the  tillage  of  Thy  husbandry  ? 

Or  who  is  he  so  fond  will  be  the  tomb 

Of  his  self-love,  to  stop  posterity  ? 

Thou  art  Thy  mother's  glass,  and  she  in  Thee 

Calls  back  the  lovely  April  of  her  prime; 

So  Thou  through  windows  of  Thine  age  shalt  see. 

Despite  of  wrinkles,  this  Thy  golden  time. 
But  if  Thou  live,  remember'd  not  to  be. 
Die  single,  and  Thine  image  dies  with  Thee. 

The  Rev.  John  Lord,  in  his  admirable  lecture 
on  Queen  Elizabeth,  winds  up  a  graphic  descrip- 
tion of  the  condition  of  England  at  the  time  of 
her  accession,  in  the  following  glowing  language:  — 


22  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

"In  England,  in  Elizabeth's  time,  there  was  a 
noble  material  for  Christianity  and  art  and  litera- 
ture to  work  upon,  and  to  develop  a  civilization 
such  as  had  not  existed  previously  on  this  earth,  — 
a  civilization  destined  to  spread  throughout  the 
world,  in  new  inventions,  laws,  language,  and  lit- 
erature, binding  hostile  races  together,  and  pro- 
claiming the  sovereignty  of  intelligence." 

"Look  in  thy  glass."  "Glass"  as  used  here, 
and  in  other  places  in  the  poem,  means  past  life. 
Look  in  his  past  life,  and  "  tell  the  face  Thou  view- 
est "  (his  culture,  opportunities,  education,  and 
natural  abilities)  that  the  time  of  life  has  come  to 
him  when  he  should  utilize  these  attainments  in 
the  production  of  some  work  reflecting  their  pow- 
ers and  beauties.  Failing  of  this,  "thou  dost  be- 
guile the  world"  (the  world  will  be  deceived  in 
the  opinion  it  has  formed  of  his  genius),  and  "un- 
bless  some  mother"  (some  subject  suited  to  his 
taste  will  fail  of  investigation).  There  are  no  "  un- 
ear'd"  (original)  matters  which  Thy  (Thought) 
could  not  examine  with  profit,  and  he  would  be 
selfish  indeed,  who,  having  the  power,  would  keep 
his  thoughts  in  himself  as  in  a  "tomb,"  and  so 
rob  "posterity"  of  them.  As  his  mother  gave  her 
thoughts  to  the  revealment  of  Truth,  so  in  his 
thoughts  she  would  see  her  life  reproduced.  Truth, 
despite  of  age,  would  be  encircled  by  his  youthful 
thoughts,  and  he  would  see  that  this  had  proved 
the  time  for  their  improvement.  There  was  work 
for  him  to  do,  and  it  would  be  his  own  fault  if  he 


m  THE  SOKJ^ETS.  23 

neglected  to  do  it.  The  age  was  full  of  opportuni- 
ties, and  great  men  were  rapidly  improving  them. 
A  mighty  revolution  in  the  world's  history  was  in 
progress,  and  if  he  failed  to  participate  in  it,  and 
remained  unknown,  he  would  "die  single''  (be  for- 
gotten), and  his  "image"  (his  memory)  would  die 
with  him. 

Sonnet  4. 
Unthrifty  loveliness,  why  dost  Thou  spend 
Upon  Thyself  Thy  beauty's  legacy  ? 
Nature's  bequest  gives  nothing,  but  doth  lend, 
And  being  frank,  she  lends  to  those  are  free. 
Then,  beauteous  niggard,  why  dost  Thou  abuse 
The  bounteous  largess  given  Thee  to  give  ? 
Profitless  usurer,  why  dost  Thou  use 
So  great  a  sum  of  sums,  yet  canst  not  live  ? 
For  having  traffic  with  Thyself  alone, 
Thou  of  Thyself  Thy  sweet  self  dost  deceive. 
Then  how,  when  nature  calls  Thee  to  be  gone, 
What  acceptable  audit  canst  Thou  leave  ? 

Thy  unus'd  beauty  must  be  tomb'd  with  Thee, 

Which,  used,  lives  Thy  executor  to  be. 

Nature,  which  gives  no  more  to  him  than  others, 
has  lent  him  much  more,  and  is  entitled  to  a 
proper  return  for  it.  "Being  frank,  she  lends  to 
those  are  free"  (her  kindness,  frankly  bestowed, 
should  be  freely  given  to  the  world).  Why  does 
he  abuse  the  "bounteous  largess  given  him  to 
give"?  (Why  should  he,  so  greatly  endowed,  ne- 
glect to  make  others  participators  of  his  gifts  ?) 
Why  use  it,  and  not  live  in  it?  In  other  words, 
why  let  his  great  powers  (his  thought  and  beauty) 


24  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

remain  in  himself,  when  so  much  good  can  be 
done  by  devoting  them  to  some  great  service  that 
will  outlive  him,  and  give  him  an  undying  name. 
It  is  wrong  not  to  **live"  (perpetuate  himself), 
with  "so  great  a  sum  of  sums''  (such  wide  and 
varied  powers).  He  belies  himself  by  keeping 
them  unused;  and  will  leave  nothing  to  show 
that  he  has  ever  lived.  All  his  "unus'd  beauty" 
(those  talents,  both  acquired  and  natural),  which, 
if  devoted  to  proper  uses,  would  give  him  charac- 
ter and  renown,  and  be  to  him  at  death  as  an  ''ex- 
ecutor," will  be  "tomb'd  with  Thee"  (buried  with 
his  thoughts,  and  lost  to  the  world). 

Sonnet  5. 
Those  hours,  that  with  gentle  work  did  frame 
The  lovely  gaze  where  every  eye  doth  dwell,      ^^^ 
"Will  play  the  tyrants  to  the  very  same,  i.j^ 

And  that  unfair  which  fairly  doth  excel; 
For  never-resting  time  leads  summer  on 
To  hideous  winter,  and  confounds  him  there; 
Sap  check'd  with  frost,  and  lusty  leaves  quite  gon^       --  " 
Beauty  o'ersnow'd,  and  bareness  everywhere:         (^"^^ 
Then,  were  not  summer's  distillation  left,         v^ 
A  liquid  prisoner  pent  in  walls  of  glass,  ^ 

Beauty's  effect  with  beauty  were  bereft. 
Nor  it,  nor  no  remembrance  what  it  was:  ^ 

But  flowers  distill'd,  though  they  with  winter  meet,       / 
LeesQ  but  their  show,  their  substance  still  lives  sweet.  ^ 

If  he  neglects  to  use  his  powers,  the  hours  of 
study,  which  have  made  him  so  accomplished  in 
learning,  intelligence,  and  poetry,  will  cause  him 
to  be  scorned  and  despised  for  his  neglect,  when 


IN  THE  SONNETS,  25 

"  never-resting  time  leads  summer  on  to  hideous 
winter"  (when  his  youth  is  passed,  and  dreary- 
old  age  comes).  He  will  then  be  like  a  tree  whose 
sap  is  frozen,  bare  of  leaves;  all  its  beauty  covered 
with,  snow,  and  its  limbs,  and  all  around  it,  naked 
and  cold.  But  if  he  improves  his  opportunities, 
they  will  be  to  him  like  "summer's  distillation'' 
(the  life-preserving  principle)  to  the  tree  and  to 
flowers,  which  no  winter  with  its  frost  and  snow 
and  bareness  can  rob  of  their  perfume. 

Sonnet  6. 

Then  let  not  winter's  ragged  hand  deface 

In  Thee  Thy  summer,  ere  Thou  be  distill'd: 

Make  sweet  some  vial;  treasure  Thou  some  place 

With  beauty's  treasure  ere  it  bo  self-kill'd. 

That  use  is  not  forbidden  usury, 

Which  happies  those  that  pay  the  willing  loan; , 

That 's  for  Thyself  to  breed  another  Thee, 

Or  ten  times  happier,  be  it  ten  for  one; 

Ten  times  Thyself  were  happier  than  Thou  art. 

If  ten  of  Thine  ten  times  refigur'd  Thee: 

Then  what  could  death  do,  if  Thou  shouldst  depart. 

Leaving  Thee  living  in  posterity  ? 

Be  not  self-will'd,  for  Thou  art  much  too  fair 

To  be  Death's  conquest,  and  make  worms  Thine  heir.        '^ 

He  should  protect  his  age  from  such  disasters, 
as  from  neglect  await  it,  by  producing  something 
in  his  youth.  His  power  to  delineate  Truth  and 
Beauty  should  be  displayed  in  his  thoughts,  before 
it  is  destroyed  by  age.  There  is  abundant  oppor- 
tunity for  all  that  he  can  do;  "that  use  is  not  for- 
bidden usury"  (where  the  work  is  well  done).     He 


26  BACON  AKD  SHAKESPEARE 

may  produce  one  or  'Hen,"  or  "ten  times  ten," 
and  the  greater  the  number,  the  greater  the  good, 
if  "they  refigure  Thee"  (if  they  are  born  of  his 
thoughts).  In  such  case  death  cannot  destroy 
him.  His  thoughts  will  live  in  posterity  (his 
works).  And  as  he  is  "much  too  fair"  (possessed 
of  the  requisite  qualifications),  he  should  antici- 
pate death  by  bis  labors,  and  win  immortality  in 
his  works. 

Sonnet  7. 
Lo,  in  the  orient  when  the  gracious  light 
Lifts  up  his  burning  head,  each  under  eye 
Doth  homage  to  his  new-appearing  sight, 
Serving  with  looks  his  sacred  majesty; 
And  having  climb'd  the  steep-up  heavenly  hill, 
Resembling  strong  youth  in  his  middle  age, 
Yet  mortal  looks  adore  his  beauty  still, 
Attending  on  his  golden  pilgrimage; 
But  when  from  highmost  pitch,  with  weary  car, 
Like  feeble  age,  he  reeleth  from  the  day, 
The  eyes,  fore  duteous,  now  converted  are 
From  his  low  tract,  and  look  another  way: 
So  Thou,  Thyself  outgoing  in  Thy  noon, 
Unlook'd  on,  diest,  unless  Thou  get  a  son. 

As  of  the  sun,  so  grand  in  its  rising  and  ascension 
to  its  meridian,  like  a  strong  youth  in  middle  life, 
commanding  the  "homage"  of  all,  and  so  "weary" 
and  "feeble"  in  its  decline,  "like  feeble  age," 
causing  all  to  "look  another  way,"  so  it  may  be 
said  of  him,  that  unless  he  prepares  some  undying 
testimonial  of  his  genius  before  the  noon,  or  mid- 
dle of  his  life,  no  record  will  remain  to  perpetuate 
his  name  or  memory. 


m  THE  SONNETS.  27 

Sonnet  8. 

Music  to  hear,  why  hear'st  Thou  music  sadly  ? 

Sweets  with  sweets  war  not,  joy  delights  in  joy. 

Why  lov'st  Thou  that  which  Thou  receiv'st  not  gladly, 

Or  else  receiv'st  with  pleasure  Thine  annoy  ? 

If  the  true  concord  of  well-tuned  sounds, 

By  unions  married,  do  offend  thine  ear. 

They  do  but  sweetly  chide  Thee,  who  confounds 

In  singleness  the  parts  that  Thou  shouldst  bear. 

Mark  how  one  string,  sweet  husband  to  another, 

Strikes  each  in  each  by  mutual  ordering. 

Resembling  sire  and  child  and  happy  mother, 

Who,  all  in  one,  one  pleasing  note  do  sing; 

Whose  speechless  song,  being  many,  seeming  one. 
Sings  this  to  Thee:  "Thou  single  wilt  prove  none." 

So  of  music  also !  It  is  only  offensive  to  that 
ear  which  confounds  its  parts  (hears  them  singly); 
but  when  aU  the  strings  strike  in  order,  like  "  sire 
and  child  and  happy  mother,''  and  all  are  heard 
as  "one  pleasing  note''  (in  perfect  unison),  then 
the  notes,  being  many,  strike  upon  the  ear  as  one, 
and  these  "  sing  to  him  "  (enforce  our  argument). 
"Thou  single  wilt  prove  none"  (Truth  alone, 
without  a  development,  is  intangible  and  useless). 

Sonnet  9. 

Is  it  for  fear  to  wet  a  widow's  eye 

That  Thou  consum'st  Thyself  in  single  life? 

All !  if  Thou  issueless  shalt  hap  to  die, 

The  world  will  wail  Thee  like  a  makeless  wife; 

The  world  will  be  Thy  widow,  and  still  weep 

That  Thou  no  form  of  Thee  hast  left  behind. 

When  every  private  widow  well  may  keep. 

By  children's  eyes,  her  husband's  shape  in  mind. 


28  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Look,  what  an  unthrift  in  the  world  doth  spend 

Shifts  but  his  place,  for  still  the  world  enjoys  it; 

But  beauty's  waste  hath  in  the  world  an  end. 

And  kept  unus'd,  the  user  so  destroys  it. 
No  love  toward  others  in  that  bosom  sits, 
That  on  himself  such  murtherous  shame  commits. 

Is  it  for  fear  of  failure  to  exhibit  Truth  correctly 
that  he  remains  silent?  If  he  fails  to  produce  a 
work  worthy  of  himself,  "the  world  will  wail  him 
like  a  makeless  wife.''  (As  a  wife  who  sorrowed 
that  she  had  never  been  blessed  with  children,  so 
the  world  will  regret  that  one  so  gifted  should  die 
without  leaving  any  record  of  his  abilities;  and 
in  that  sense  will  be  his  widow,  and  remember 
him  only  as  one  who  wasted  his  powers,  leaving 
nothing  to  tell  that  he  had  ever  existed.)  He  was 
an  "unthrift"  (a  worthless  fellow),  who  had 
Beauty  in  possession,  but  never  used  it,  or  delin- 
eated it,  and  it  was  necessarily  of  no  account. 
He  could  have  no  love  or  regard  for  his  fellows,  as 
was  evident  from  the  "murtherous  shame"  (the 
neglect  and  sacrifice)  of  his  own  powers. 

Sonnet  10. 

For  shame  !  deny  that  Thou  bear'st  love  to  any. 
Who  for  Thyself  art  so  unprovident. 
Grant,  if  Thou  wilt.  Thou  art  belov'd  of  many, 
But  that  Thou  none  lov'st  is  most  evident; 
For  Thou  art  so  possess'd  with  murtherous  hate. 
That  'gainst  Thj'self  Thou  stick'st  not  to  conspire. 
Seeking  that  beauteous  roof  to  ruinate. 
Which  to  repair  should  be  Ihy  chief  desire. 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  29 

O,  change  Thy  thought,  that  I  may  change  My  mind! 

Shall  hate  be  fairer  lodg'd  than  gentle  love  ? 

Be,  as  Thy  presence  is,  gracious  and  kind, 

Or  to  Thyself  at  least  kind-hearted  prove; 
Make  Thee  another  self,  for  love  of  Me, 
That  beauty  still  may  live  in  Thine  or  Thee. 

In  this  stanza  he  rebukes  Thou  (Truth),  charg- 
ing him  with  indifference  to  all,  and  entire  dis- 
regard of  his  own  powers.  He  cares  nothing  for 
the  esteem  in  which  others  hold  him,  but  is  so 
neglectful  of  his  own  thoughts,  that  all  his 
acquirements,  which  should  be  devoted  to  some 
good  purpose,  will  fall  into  decay  from  disuse. 
"0,  change  Thy  thought,  that  I  may  change  My 
mind,''  is  the  same  as  if  he  had  besought  Truth 
to  aid  him  in  giving  direction  to  his  thoughts. 
Such  "hate"  (indifference)  as  Truth  exhibits,  and 
such  "love"  (desire)  as  he  feels  to  work,  ought 
not  to  dwell  in  the  same  person.  He  contem- 
plates his  thoughts  with  pleasure,  and  asks  for 
their  kindness  in  return,  and  "for  love  of  Me 
make  Thee  another  self"  (with  Truth  as  the 
foundation,  he  will  produce  some  work  worthy  of 
himself).  "  That  Beauty  still  may  live  in  Thine 
and  Thee"  (which  shall  display  the  imagery  and 
brilliancy  of  his  own  thoughts,  and  give  them 
endurance). 

Sonnet  11. 
As  fast  as  Thou  shalt  wane,  so  fast  Thou  growest 
In  one  of  Thine,  from  that  which  Thou  departest; 
And  that  fresh  blood  which  youngly  Thou  bestowest. 
Thou  may'st  call  Thine,  when  Thou  from  youth  convertest. 


30  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Herein  lives  wisdom,  beauty,  and  increase; 
Without  this,  folly,  age,  and  cold  decay: 
If  all  were  minded  so,  the  time  should  cease, 
And  threescore  year  would  make  the  world  away. 
Let  those  whom  Nature  hath  not  made  for  store, 
Harsh,  featureless,  and  rude,  barrenly  perish: 
Look,  whom  she  best  endow'd,  she  gave  the  more, 
Which  bounteous  gift  Thou  shouldst  in  bounty  cherish. 
She  carvM  Thee  for  her  seal,  and  meant  thereby 
Thou  shouldst  print  more,  not  let  that  copy  die. 

In  the  promise  here  made  to  Thou  (Truth),  that 
"  as  fast  as  Thou  shalt  wane,  so  fast  Thou  growest 
in  one  of  Thine,"  we  are  assured  that  as  soon  as 
one  drama  is  completed  another  will  be  begun,  in 
which  Truth  will  be  exhibited  in  his  thought,  and 
that  "  fresh  blood,  which  youngly  thou  bestowest  " 
(these  early  productions  of  his  genius),  "  Thou 
may'st  call  Thine  when  Thou  from  youth  convert- 
est "  (will  bear  testimony  to  his  great  powers  of 
delineation  when  he  is  old).  All  that  is  good  and 
beautiful  in  his  nature  will  assist  him  in  his  la- 
bors, but  if  he  neglects  them  all,  his  worst  quali- 
ties will  take  possession  of  him,  and  he  will  be 
forgotten.  If  such  a  course  of  life  were  pursued 
by  all,  the  world  would  be  destitute  of  truth  in 
"threescore  year"  (a  single  life).  In  the  remain- 
ing lines  of  this  stanza  he  shows  that  he  had  a  full 
appreciation  of  his  own  great  abilities,  as  con- 
trasted with  the  common  allotment.  He  owed  it 
to  Nature,  which  had  so  grandly  endowed  him,  to 
make  a  corresponding  return.  She  had  given 
him  more  than  those  whom  "she  best  endowed." 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  81 

She  had,  indeed,  "carved  Thee  (Thought)  for  her 
seal,''  meaning  thereby  that  Truth  should  multi- 
ply himself,  and  never  die. 

Sonnet  12. 
When  I  do  count  the  clock  that  tells  the  time, 
And  see  the  brave  day  sunk  in  hideous  night; 
When  I  behold  the  violet  past  prime, 
And  sable  curls,  all  silver'd  o'er  with  white; 
When  lofty  trees  I  see  barren  of  leaves, 
Which  erst  from  heat  did  canopy  the  herd, 
And  summer's  green,  all  girded  up  in  sheaves, 
Borne  on  the  bier  with  white  and  bristly  beard: 
Then  of  Thy  beauty  do  I  question  make. 
That  Thou  among  the  wastes  of  time  must  go, 
Since  sweets  and  beauties  do  themselves  forsake, 
And  die  as  fast  as  they  see  others  grow. 

And  nothing  'gainst  Time's  scythe  can  make  defence, 
Save  breed,  to  brave  him  when  he  takes  Thee  hence. 

As  the  day  obscured  by  night;  as  the  violet  when 
fading  to  decay;  as  the  sable  hair  when  silvered; 
as  tall  trees  bereft  of  foliage;  as  the  green  summer 
fields,  gathered  into  bristly  and  bearded  crops, — so, 
since  it  thus  appears  that  natural  objects  are  for- 
saken by  the  appendages  that  give  them  beauty 
and  sweetness,  will  it  be  with  the  beauty  and 
sweetness  of  his  thoughts,  and  they  will  by  time  be 
wasted,  unless  he  perpetuates  himself  by  '* breed'* 
(the  production  of  works  worthy  of  himself). 
Therein  is  his  only  defence  against  Time. 

The  next  stanza  is  addressed  to  Beauty  (imper- 
sonated as  You).     Those  preceding  have  been  ad- 


32  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

dressed  to  Truth  (impersonated  as  Thou)  and 
Thy  (impersonated  as  Thought).  Thou,  Thy,  and 
You  are  represented  as  young  men.  Thou  as  the 
active,  vigorous  worker.  The  solid,  reliable  work 
of  the  dramas  (all  that  gives  them  permanent 
value)  is  to  be  furnished  by  Thou,  and  this  store 
is  to  be  wrought  into  form  by  Thy  (Thought). 
Beauty  is  to  furnish  ornament,  imagery,  creative 
power,  and  every  conceivable  grace  that  will  ren- 
der Truth  attractive  without  impairing  his  might 
or  perverting  the  ends  he  has  in  view. 

It  has  been  suggested  by  some  writers  who  fa- 
vor the  Baconian  theory  that  the  dramas  were 
intended,  when  written,  to  form  the  fourth  part 
of  the  Novum  Organum.  They  were  designed  to 
illustrate  life  in  character  upon  a  philosophical 
basis,  and  not  for  theatrical  representation.  How- 
ever this  may  have  been,  and  how  well  soever  they 
might  have  accomplished  such  a  purpose,  with 
nothing  but  conjecture  for  this  opinion,  we  can 
consider  them  only  in  their  isolated  condition. 
The  great  merit  of  the  dramas  consists  in  the 
union  of  Truth  and  Beauty  as  everywhere  exhib- 
ited in  them.  It  is  the  one  profound  thought 
appearing  in  them  which  has  given  them  their 
vast  superiority  over  the  works  of  all  other  writers. 
There  is  hardly  a  thought  or  character  in  the 
whole  range  that  could  be  removed  without  afifect- 
ing  the  grand  entirety  of  the  work  in  which  it 
appears.     As  problems  in  the  philosophy  of  mind, 


m  THE  SONNETS.  33 

aside  from  their  attractive  garb  of  language  and 
imagery,  they  will  always  rank  with  the  philoso- 
phical works  of  the  best  writers.  It  has  been 
truly  said  by  Charles  Lamb  and  others  that  they 
exceed  the  powers  of  the  mimic  art  properly  to 
display  them;  at  the  same  time,  it  is  also  true 
that  it  will  be  a  sad  event  for  the  theatre,  when  it 
abandons  them,  to  give  place  to  the  wretched  rep- 
resentations of  this  generation. 


Sonnet  13. 

O,  that  Yon  were  Yourself !  but,  love,  You  are 

No  longer  Yours,  than  You  Yourself  here  live; 

Against  this  coming  end  You  should  prepare, 

And  Your  sweet  semblance  to  some  other  give. 

So  should  that  beauty  which  You  hold  in  lease 

Find  no  determination;  then  You  were 

Yourself  again  after  Yourself 's  decease, 

When  Your  sweet  issue  Your  sweet  form  should  bear. 

Who  lets  so  fair  a  house  fall  to  decay, 

Which  husbandry  in  honor  might  uphold, 

Against  the  stormy  gusts  of  winter's  day 

And  barren  rage  of  death's  eternal  cold  ? 

O,  none  but  unthrifts!  dear,  my  love,  You  know 

You  had  a  father;  let  Your  son  say  so. 

You  (Beauty),  as  Thou  (Truth),  in  the  preced- 
ing stanza,  is  urged  to  be  himself,  but  he  can  only 
be  himself  while  he  lives,  and  he  can  live  only 
in  the  object  which  he  adorns.  He  is  both  evan- 
escent, in  that  he  fades  with  a  thought,  and  de- 
pendent, because  he  has  no  separate  life.  This 
ethereality  he  is  warned  to  overcome,  by  giving 


34  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

his  "sweet  semblance"  (his  varied  powers  of  crea- 
tion, fancy,  grace,  sublimity,  dignity)  to  another, 
in  whom  it  may  be  perpetuated.  His  gift  should 
''find  no  determination"  (it  should  be  entire,  un- 
limited). This  will  make  You  (Beauty)  "Your- 
self again  after  Yourself 's  decease  "  (he  will  renew 
his  life  in  every  work  that  he  adorns).  When 
such  a  gift,  so  rich  in  attributes,  can  be  hon- 
orably saved  from  "the  stormy  gusts  of  winter's 
day"  (old  age  and  its  infirmities),  and  "barren 
rage  of  death's  eternal  cold"  (negligence  and  dis- 
use), who  but  an  "unthrift"  (a  worthless  fellow) 
will  not  avail  himself  of  the  means  to  develop  it? 
As  You  (Beauty)  depended  upon  a  father  (some 
object)  for  your  life,  so  by  a  "son"  (like  depend- 
ence) must  yours  continue. 


Sonnet  14. 

Nor  from  the  stars  do  I  my  judgment  pluck; 
And  yet  methinks  I  have  astronomy, 
But  not  to  tell  of  good  or  evil  luck, 
Of  plagues,  of  dearths,  or  seasons'  quality; 
Nor  can  I  fortune  to  brief  minutes  tell, 
Pointing  to  each  his  thunder,  rain,  and  wind. 
Or  say  with  princes  if  it  shall  go  weU, 
By  oft  predict  that  I  in  heaven  find: 
But  from  Thine  eyes  my  knowledge  I  derive. 
And,  constant  stars,  in  them  I  read  such  art 
As  Truth  and  Beauty  shall  together  thrive, 
If  from  Thyself  to  store  Thou  wouldst  convert; 
Or  else  of  Thee  this  I  prognosticate,  — 
Thy  end  is  Truth's  and  Beauty's  doom  and  date. 


m  THE  SONNETS,  35 

The  poet,  though  familiar  with  astronomy,  has 
not  consulted  the  stars,  nor  does  his  knowledge  of 
them  enable  him  to  foretell  their  influence  upon 
the  fortune  of  any  one,  or  upon  the  varied  evils 
which  befall  the  world.  He  does  not  understand 
their  effect  well  enough  to  determine  the  time 
when  fortune  will  come,  nor  their  natural  oper- 
ation upon  the  climate  and  weather,  nor  will  he 
undertake  to  predict  good  even  to  princes  from 
any  study  he  has  made  of  the  heavens;  but  he 
has  learned  from  Thou's  "eyes''  (his  external 
appearance),  those  "constant  stars"  (their  change- 
less nature),  enough  of  the  art  of  divination  to 
assure  him  that  "  truth  and  beauty  "  (Thou  and 
You)  shall  succeed  in  producing  a  work  worthy 
of  them,  if  "from  thyself  to  store  thou  wouldst 
convert"  (if  in  his  thoughts  he  can  demonstrate 
Thou  (Truth)  in  his  labors  correctly).  If  not,  then 
he  prophesies  that  in  failing  to  do  so,  "Truth  and 
Beauty"  (Thou  and  You)  will  find  their  "doorp" 
(they  will  not  be  used  in  the  same  manner  by  any 
one  else,  and  the  world  will  fail  to  derive  any  bene- 
fit from  their  conjoint  presentation). 

Sonnet  15. 

When  I  consider  everything  that  grows 

Holds  in  perfection  but  a  little  moment, 

That  this  huge  state  presenteth  naught  but  shows 

Whereon  the  stars  in  secret  influence  comment; 

When  I  perceive  that  men  as  plants  increase, 

Cheered  and  check'd  even  by  the  self -same  sky. 


36  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Vaunt  in  their  youthful  sap,  at  height  decrease. 
And  wear  their  brave  state  out  of  memory; 
Then  the  conceit  of  this  inconstant  stay 
Sets  You  most  rich  in  youth  before  my  sight, 
Where  wasteful  time  debateth  with  decay, 
To  change  Your  day  of  youth  to  sullied  night; 
And  all  in  war  with  Time,  for  love  of  You, 
As  he  takes  from  You,  I  engraft  You  new. 


All  things  growing  on  this  earth,  after  arriving 
at  a  state  of  "perfection"  (maturity),  by  some 
"secret  influence"  (operation  of  nature),  begin  to 
decline.  They  hold  that  state  but  a  little  moment 
(brief  period).  Men  grow  and  decrease,  without 
any  change  in  their  surrounding  conditions,  one 
day  full  of  youth  and  life,  the  next  worn  with  dis- 
ease or  age.  "Wasteful  time  debateth  wuth  decay" 
(time  wears  out  everything  that  has  life).  "Your 
day  of  youth"  (the  beautiful  thoughts  of  his  early 
life)  are  now  full  of  vigor,  and  he  (the  poet),  anx- 
ious to  prevent  a  fate  for  them  like  that  he  has 
depicted  of  other  things,  is  "all  in  war  with  Time, 
for  love  of  You"  (is  determined  to  accomplish  his 
work,  and  embellish  it  with  Beauty),  and  as  Time 
"takes  from  You  (Beauty),  I  engraft  You  new" 
(that  is,  he  will  follow  one  work  with  another  as 
fast  as  possible).  This,  with  little  variation,  is  the 
same  promise  he  made  to  Thou  in  the  twelfth 
stanza,  and  conveys  the  additional  meaning  that 
Beauty  will  be  reproduced  from  time  to  time  as 
occasion  may  require. 


m  TUB  SONNETS.  37 

Sonnet  16. 
But  wherefore  do  not  You  a  mightier  way 
Make  war  upon  this  bloody  tyrant,  Tim«  ? 
And  fortify  Yourself  in  Your  decay 
With  means  more  blessed  than  my  barren  rhyme  7 
Now  stand  You  on  the  top  of  happy  hours, 
And  many  maiden  gardens,  yet  unset, 
With  virtuous  wish  would  bear  Your  living  flowers, 
Much  liker  than  Your  painted  counterfeit; 
So  should  the  lines  of  life  that  life  repair, 
Which  this  Time's  pencil  or  my  pupil  pen, 
Neither  in  inward  worth,  nor  outward  fair, 
Can  make  You  live  yourself  in  eyes  of  men. 
To  give  away  Yourself  keeps  Yourself  still, 
And  You  must  live,  drawn  by  Your  own  sweet  skill. 

Continuing  this  address  to  You  (Beauty),  th« 
question  put  in  the  opening  lines  of  this  stanza 
implies  that  there  is  work  for  him  of  much  greater 
import  than  any  yet  suggested, — work  that  w411 
"fortify  Yourself  in  Your  decay*'  (empower  him  to 
resist  the  tendencies  to  destruction),  by  an  exhibi- 
tion of  might  much  greater  than  ''my  barren 
rhyme**  (the  Sonnets)  affords.  He  is  now  standing 
"on  the  top  of  happy  hours**  (when  youth  is  to  be 
exchanged  for  manhood).  "And  many  maiden 
gardens,  yet  unset"  (many  beautiful  subjects  that 
have  never  been  delineated),  "with  virtuous  wish 
would  bear  Your  living  flowers"  (if  studied  with 
truthful  purpose,  would  unfold  themselves  into 
beautiful  thoughts).  Their  life  and  bloom  would 
exceed  "your  painted  counterfeit**  (all  that  has 
been  promised  for  him  by  others).  "So  should 
the  lines  of  life  that  life  repair**  (his  future  lif« 


|UKI7BESIT7] 


38  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

should  justify  these  promises).  But  neither  (they), 
''this  Time's  pencil,"  nor  "my  pupil  pen"  (these 
rhymes  of  his  youth),  "can  make  You  live  Your- 
self in  eyes  of  men"  (can  give  him  personal  celeb- 
rity). "  To  give  away  Yourself  keeps  Yourself  still " 
(he  must  adorn  truth  with  his  beauty  in  order 
that  he  may  live).  "And  you  must  live  drawn  by 
your  own  sweet  skill"  (renown  and  immortality 
will  depend  upon  the  products  of  his  own  powers 
of  fancy  and  embellishment). 


Sonnet  17. 

Who  will  believe  my  verse  in  time  to  come, 

If  it  were  fill'd  with  Your  most  high  deserts  ? 

Though  yet,  Heaven  knows,  it  is  but  as  a  tomb 

Which  hides  Your  life,  and  shows  not  half  Your  parts. 

If  I  could  write  the  beauty  of  Your  eyes, 

And  in  fresh  numbers  number  all  Your  graces, 

The  age  to  come  would  say,  "This  poet  lies, 

Such  heavenly  touches  ne'er  touch 'd  earthly  faces," 

So  should  my  papers,  yellow'd  with  their  age, 

Be  scom'd,  like  old  men  of  less  truth  than  tongue; 

And  Your  true  rights  be  term'd  a  poet's  rage. 

And  stretched  metre  of  an  antique  song; 

But  were  some  child  of  yours  alive  that  time. 
You  should  live  twice,  —  in  it  and  in  my  rhyme. 

He  suggests  the  improbability  of  any  future 
fame  for  Beauty,  in  the  praise  which  may  be 
bestowed  upon  him  by  "  my  verse"  (the  Sonnets); 
but  "Heaven  knows,"  he  continues,  "it  is  but  as 
a  tomb,  which  hides  Your  life,  and  shows  not  half 
Your  parts."     The  meaning  of  this  is  very  clear. 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  39 

The  Sonnets,  by  the  Key  used  in  their  compo- 
sition, are  intended  to  conceal,  as  in  "a  tomb" 
(from  the  knowledge  of  the  world),  "the  life*^  (the 
true  origin  of  the  dramas  attributed  to  Shake- 
speare), and  "show  not  half  the  parts"  (show 
enough  to  excite  the  curiosity  of  the  world  to  know 
their  real  meaning,  and  no  more).  What  more 
probable  solution  than  this  can  be  give  a  to  these 
lines?  If  correct,  why  should  Shakespeare,  who 
appears  as  the  author  of  both  Sonnets  and  Dramas, 
have  written  them  ?  What  had  he  to  conceal  from 
the  world  that  rendered  the  Sonnets  necessary? 
The  poet  returns  from  this  digression  to  further 
consider  the  argument  of  improbability  with 
which  he  began  the  stanza.  However  laudatory 
might  be  his  praises  of  the  beauty  of  his  "eyes" 
(his  outward  appearance),  or  if  even  in  "fresh 
numbers"  (in  another  poem)  he  should  "number 
all  his  graces"  (detail  the  powers  of  his  genius), 
the  future  age  would  accuse  him  of  lying,  and 
say  that  no  person  was  ever  so  richly  endowed. 
His  records  would  be  held  in  the  same  contempt 
of  old  romancers,  and  denounced  as  the  vagaries 
of  a  crazy  poet.  (But  if  some  work  adorned  by 
You  (Beauty),  should  be  in  existence  then),  "some 
child  of  yours  alive  that  time,"  then  the  world, 
seeing  You  in  that,  would  believe  my  rhyme,  and 
You  would  live  in  both. 

The  symbols  of  marriage  as  the  means  of  perpe- 
tuity, and  of  a  child  as  the  production  of  an  im- 


40  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEABE 

mortal  work,  are  dismissed  from  the  poem  m  the 
seventeenth  stanza.  Inferentially,  Thou  (Truth), 
Thy  (Thought),  and  You  (Beauty)  have  con- 
sented to  work  together. 

Sonnet  18. 

Shall  I  compare  Thee  to  a  summer's  day  ? 
Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate: 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 
And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date; 
Some  time  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines. 
And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimm'd; 
And  every  fair  from  fair  some  time  declines, 
By  chance,  or  nature's  changing  course,  untrimm'd; 
But  Thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade. 
Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  Thou  owest; 
Nor  shall  death  brag  Thou  wander'st  in  his  shade, 
When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  Thou  growest: 
So  long  as  men  can  breathe  or  eyes  can  see, 
So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  Thee. 

Thee  (Thought)  is  compared  to  summer,  but 
Thou  (Truth)  will  be  found  "more  lovely"  (pos- 
sessed of  greater  attractions),  and  "more  tem- 
perate" (not  changeable).  Summer  is  subject  to 
*'  rough  winds,"  and  of  too  brief  duration.  The  sun 
is  often  too  hot, — often  overcast.  Everything 
beautiful  in  nature  is  more  or  less  afifected  by 
chance.  Nature  herself,  being  changeful  in  her 
course,  promotes  or  destroys  beauty,  and  there  is 
no  reliability  to  be  placed  upon  her  favors.  But 
Thy  (Thought)  lives  in  an  unfading,  eternal 
summer,  and  is  subject  to  no  changes.     The  poet 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  41 

assures  him  that  he  shall  not  "lose  possession  of 
that  fair  Thou  owest*'  (he  will  never  separate  him 
from  Truth  and  Beauty  in  his  works).  They  shall 
be  immortal  "when  in  eternal  lines  to  time  Thou 
growest ''  (when  those  works  founded  upon  Truth, 
and  decorated  with  Beauty,  shall  be  produced  and 
appreciated).  They  will  live  while  men  live  and 
(have  the  ability)  "can  see"  to  read  them,  and  this 
poem  will  give  life  sooner  or  later  to  "Thee'' 
(Thought),  their  author. 

Sonnet  19. 
Devouring  Time,  blunt  Thou  the  lion's  paws, 
And  make  the  earth  devour  her  own  sweet  brood; 
Pluck  the  keen  teeth  from  the  fierce  tiger's  jaws, 
And  burn  the  long-liv'd  phoenix  in  her  blood; 
Make  glad  and  sorry  seasons  as  Thou  fleets. 
And  do  whate'er  Thou  wilt,  swift-footed  Time, 
To  the  wide  world,  and  all  her  fading  sweets; 
But  I  forbid  Thee  one  most  heinous  crime: 
O,  carve  not  with  Thy  hours  My  Love's  fair  brow, 
Nor  draw  no  lines  there  with  Thine  antique  pen; 
Him  in  Thy  course  untainted  do  allow. 
For  Beauty's  pattern  to  succeeding  men. 

Yet,  do  Thy  worst,  old  Time;  despite  Thy  wrong, 
My  Love  shall  in  my  verse  ever  live  young. 

The  devastations  wrought  by  Time  upon  ani- 
mate and  inanimate  nature  are  graphically  de- 
picted in  this  stanza,  for  the  purpose  of  showing 
by  contrast  the  indestructibility  of  the  works  he 
has  in  contemplation.  While  Time  brings  an  end 
to  the  fiercest  and  strongest  animals,  and  "de- 
vours "  the  earth's  "sweet  brood"  (human  beings), 


42  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

it  Spares  the  records  of  genius, — and  as  they  are 
spared,  so  will  "  My  Love's  fair  brow  "  (these  works 
of  his)  be  spared  to  be  "Beauty's  pattern  to  suc- 
ceeding men"  (to  be  admired  and  imitated 
throughout  all  ages).  Let  Time  "  do  its  worst" 
(let  them  be  overlooked  or  neglected).  "Despite 
Thy  wrong"  nothing  can  deprive  "My  Love" 
(his  dramas)  of  immortal  youth  and  life. 

Sonnet  20. 

A  woman's  face,  with  Nature's  own  hand  painted. 

Hast  Thou,  the  master-mistress  of  my  passion; 

A  woman's  gentle  heart,  but  not  acquainted 

With  shifting  change,  as  is  false  women's  fashion; 

An  eye  more  bright  than  theirs,  less  false  in  rolling, 

Gilding  the  object  whereupon  it  gazeth; 

A  man  in  hue,  all  hues  in  his  controlling. 

Which  steals  men's  eyes,  and  women's  souls  amazeth. 

And  for  a  woman  wert  Thou  first  created; 

Till  Nature,  as  she  wrought  Thee,  fell  a-doting, 

And  by  addition  me  of  Thee  defeated, 

By  adding  one  thing  to  my  purpose  nothing. 

But  since  she  prick'd  Thee  out  for  women's  pleasure, 
Mine  be  Thy  love,  and  Thy  love's  use  their  treasure. 

This  stanza  describes  Thou  (Truth).  "A  wo- 
man's face"  (the  attractiveness  of  Truth  has  all 
the  charm  and  sweetness  that  is  depicted  in  the 
female  countenance),  "by  Nature's  own  hand 
painted"  (undisguised  by  art  and  external  orna- 
ment), "hast  Thou,  the  master-mistress  of  my 
passion"  (Truth,  partaking  of  all  the  good  quali- 
ties of  both  man  and  woman,  forms  the  great  sub- 
ject he  intends  to  delineate  in  his  works).     "A 


TN-  THE  SON-NETS,  43 

woman^s  gentle  heart"  (Truth,  like  a  lovely  wo- 
man, reflects  nothing  that  is  wrong  or  wicked,  but 
unlike  a  woman,  never  changes).  Its  "eye  more 
bright  than  theirs,  less  false  in  rolling''  (is  observ- 
ant of  all  things,  and  never  deceived  or  deceiv- 
ing). ''Gilding  the  object  whereupon  it  gazeth" 
(enriching  every  subject  it  investigates).  *'A 
man  in  hue,  all  hues  in  his  controlling"  (re- 
sembling man  in  influence  and  achievements). 
''Which  steals  men's  eyes,  and  women's  souls 
amazeth  "  (commanding  the  observations  of  men 
and  the  wonder  of  women).  "And  for  a  woman 
wert  Thou  first  created  "  (the  eyes  of  the  woman, 
after  partaking  of  the  forbidden  fruit,  were  first 
opened  to  a  knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  and  Truth, 
as  the  creation  of  that  moment,  was  first  beheld 
by  her),  but  "Nature  as  she  wrought  Thee  fell 
a-doting,  and  by  addition  me  of  Thee  defeated  " 
(man  was  added  to  woman  in  the  same  crime,  and 
thus  lost  his  truth  at  the  moment  he  discovered 
it).  "  But  since  she  prick'd  Thee  out  for  women's 
pleasure"  (the  pleasure  of  eating  the  fruit  by  the 
woman  gave  Truth  its  development),  "Mine  be 
Thy  love,  and  Thy  love's  use  their  treasure"  (his 
thoughts  will  be  true,  and  that  Truth  shall  give 
them  immortality). 

Sonnet  21. 
So  is  it  not  with  me  as  with  that  Muse, 
•     Stirr'd  by  a  painted  beauty  to  his  verse, 
Who  heaven  itself  for  ornament  doth  use, 
And  every  fair  with  his  fair  doth  rehearse; 


44  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Making  a  couplement  of  proud  compare, 

With  sun  and  moon,  with  earth  and  sea's  rich  gems. 

With  April's  first-born  flowers,  and  all  things  rare 

That  heaven's  air  in  this  huge  rondure  hems. 

O,  let  me,  true  in  love,  but  truly  write, 

And  then  believe  me.  My  Love  is  as  fair 

As  any  mother's  child,  though  not  so  bright 

As  those  gold  candles  fix'd  in  heaven's  air: 

Let  them  say  more  that  like  of  hearsay  well; 

I  will  not  praise,  that  purpose  not  to  selL 

The  poet  in  this  stanza  declares  that  his  purpose 
is  to  write  the  truth.  He  will  not  imitate  a  con- 
temporary pen,  who  is  "stirr'd  by  a  painted  beauty 
to  his  verse"  (chosen  some  subject  that  is  out  of 
the  range  of  nature),  and  who  uses  all  things  in 
heaven  and  earth  for  his  ornaments,  showing  by 
comparison  how  much  the  sun,  moon,  sea,  and 
first  flowers  of  spring  are  excelled  by  this  subject 
of  his  verse.  If  the  poet  succeeds  in  drawing  his 
characters  true  to  life,  then  "  My  Love  is  as  fair  as 
any  mother's  child"  (his  dramas  will  be  as  at- 
tractive and  beautiful  as  the  symbolic  child,  their 
prototype  in  the  first  seventeen  stanzas).  The 
motive  which  governs  him  in  writing  is  to  benefit 
his  age  by  delineating  truth,  and  not  to  manufac- 
ture some  ephemeral  efiPusions  to  please  the  taste 
of  the  time.  It  is  impossible  at  this  distance  of 
time  to  designate  with  certainty  any  single  writer 
of  Elizabeth's  time,  as  the  one  alluded  to  by  the 
poet.  Many  of  the  characters  in  the  "Fairie 
Queen "  would  seem  to  indicate  it  might  have 
been  Spenser.     His  Red  Cross  Knight  personated 


m  THE  SONNETS.  45 

Holiness;  his  Sir  Guyon,  Temperance;  his  Brito- 
martis,  Chastity; — while  of  his  earthly  characters 
*'  Gloriana  and  Belphoebe  were  both  symbolical  of 
Queen  Elizabeth,"  and  the  character  of  ''Envy  is 
intended  to  glance  at  the  unfortunate  Mary  Queen 
of  Scots."     Chambers  says:  — 

"His  inexhaustible  powers  of  circumstantial 
description  betrayed  him  into  a  tedious  minute- 
ness, which  sometimes  in  the  delineation  of  his 
personified  passion  becomes  repulsive,  and  in  the 
painting  of  natural  objects  led  him  to  group  to- 
gether trees  and  plants,  and  assemble  sounds  and 
instruments  which  were  never  seen  or  heard  in 

unison  outside  of  fairy  land We  surrender 

ourselves  up  for  a  time  to  the  power  of  the  en- 
chanter, and  witness  with  wonder  and  delight  his 
marvellous  achievements,  but  we  wish  to  return 
again  to  the  world,  and  to  mingle  with  our  fellow- 
mortals  in  its  busy  and  passionate  pursuits.  It 
is  here  that  Shakespeare  eclipses  Spenser;  here 
that  he  builds  upon  his  beautiful  groundwork  of 
fancy,  —  the  high  and  durable  structure  of  con- 
scious dramatic  truth  and  living  reality." 


Sonnet  22. 

My  glass  shall  not  persuade  me  I  am  old, 
So  long  as  youth  and  Thou  are  of  one  date; 
But  when  in  Thee  time's  furrows  I  behold, 
Then  look  I  death  my  days  should  expiate. 
For  all  that  beauty  that  doth  cover  Thee 
Is  but  the  seemly  raiment  of  my  heart, 
Which  in  Thy  breast  doth  live,  as  Thine  in  me: 
How  can  I,  then,  be  elder  than  Thou  art  ? 


46  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

O,  therefore,  love,  be  of  Thyself  so  wary, 

As  I,  not  for  Myself,  but  for  Thee  will; 

Bearing  Thy  heart,  which  I  will  keep  so  chary 

As  tender  nurse  her  babe  from  faring  ill. 
Presume  not  on  Thy  heart  when  Mine  is  slainj 
Thou  gav'st  Me  Thine,  not  to  give  back  again. 

In  this  stanza  the  poet  claims  a  conscious  equal- 
ity with  Truth,  in  those  powers  needful  for  his  de- 
lineation. "  My  glass  shall  not  persuade  me  I  am 
old,  so  long  as  youth  and  Thou  are  of  one  date" 
(nothing  in  his  life  as  it  passes  shall  discourage 
him  in  his  thoughts,  while  they  reflect  truth  with 
vigor).  *'But  when  in  Thee  time's  furrows  I  be- 
hold, then  look  I  death  my  days  should  expiate" 
(when  they  fail  of  faithful  representation,  he  will 
abandon  work).  He  is  conscious  of  power  to  rep- 
resent Truth  in  beautiful  colors.  It  pervades  and 
animates  his  entire  being;  and  he  cannot  "be 
elder  than  Thou  art"  (cannot  fail  through  any 
want  of  ability).  But  he  must  protect  his  thoughts 
from  exposure  for  the  sake  of  Truth.  If  the  queen, 
his  uncle,  Lord  Burleigh,  or  his  enemy  and  rival, 
Sir  Edward  Coke,  or  any  of  the  noblemen  compos- 
ing the  court  of  Elizabeth,  should  ascertain  that 
he  was  writing  plays,  he  would  be  forced  to  cease. 
It  would  require  such  care  as  a  ''tender  nurse" 
bestows  upon  a  babe,  to  escape  their  observant 
eyes.  If  his  heart  "  is  slain  "  (if  his  dramatic  writ- 
ings are  discovered),  his  thoughts  will  be  lost  to 
the  world,  and  the  grand  work  he  lias  undertaken 
will  come  to  an  end. 


IN  THE  SONNETS,  47 

Sonnet  23. 
As  an  unperfect  actor  on  the  stage, 
Who  with  his  fear  is  put  besides  his  part, 
Or  some  fierce  thing  replete  with  too  much  rage, 
Whose  strength's  abundance  weakens  his  own  heart; 
So  I,  for  fear  of  trust,  forget  to  say 
The  perfect  ceremony  of  love's  rite. 
And  in  Mine  own  love's  strength  seem  to  decay, 
O'ercharg'd  with  burden  of  Mine  own  love's  might. 
O,  let  my  books  be,  then,  the  eloquence 
And  dumb  presagers  of  My  speaking  breast; 
Who  plead  for  love  and  look  for  recompense, 
More  than  that  tongue  that  more  hath  more  express'd 

0,  learn  to  read  what  silent  love  hath  writ; 

To  hear  with  eyes  belongs  to  love's  fine  wit. 

He  explains  the  diffidence  with  which  he  enters 
upon  the  work  of  composition.  It  is  like  the  fear 
that  disturbs  an  actor  who  attempts  the  perform- 
ance of  a  part  not  perfectly  committed,  like  some- 
thing which  seemingly  exceeds  his  powers  of 
delineation.  He  hesitates  to  write  what  his  feel- 
ings dictate,  and  then  in  his  own  vi«w  ''seems  to 
decay  ^'  (to  come  short  of  his  purpose),  because  of 
the  magnitude  which  the  subject  assumes  as  it 
progresses.  *'  O'ercharg^d  with  burden  of  Mine 
own  love's  might "  (in  this  exigency  his  works 
must  declare  his  success  or  failure).  They  are 
"the  dumb  presagers  of  his  speaking  breast" 
(they  tell  in  words  what  he  has  conceived  in 
silence).  They  ''  plead  for  love  and  look  for 
recompense ''  (they  will  recommend  themselves, 
and  be  appreciated  for  what  they  contain).  "More 
than  that  tongue  that  more  hath  more  expressed.'' 


48  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

This  line,  in  the  words  "  that  more  hath  more  ex- 
pressed/' probably  refers  to  some  of  the  philo- 
sophical works  of  Bacon,  in  which  he  had  more 
fully  set  forth  the  benefits  of  Truth.  The  refer- 
ence is  distinct  enough  to  justify  such  a  conclusion. 
The  last  couplet  conveys  the  idea  that  his  readers 
must  be  satisfied  with  his  works,  without  knowing 
by  whom  they  were  written,  as  it  will  require 
"  love's  fine  wit "  to  find  him  out  by  observation. 
Two  of  his  plays  (the  Contention  of  York  and 
Lancaster,  and  the  True  Tragedy  of  the  Duke  of 
York,  afterwards  changed  to  the  second  and  third 
parts  of  Henry  VI.)  appeared  without  the  name  of 
Shakespeare  or  any  other  name  as  author,  and 
but  eleven  of  them  were  published  with  Shake- 
speare's name  during  his  life.  All  the  others  at- 
tributed to  him  first  appeared  as  of  his  authorship 
in  the  folio  of  1623,  some  seven  years  after  his 
death. 

Sonnet  24. 
Mine  eye  hath  play'd  the  painter,  and  hath  stell'd 
Thy  beauty's  form  in  table  of  My  heart; 
My  body  is  the  frame  wherein  't  is  held. 
And  perspective  it  is  best  painter's  art. 
For  through  the  painter  must  You  see  his  skill, 
To  find  where  Your  true  image  pictur'd  lies; 
Which  in  My  bosom's  shop  is  hanging  still, 
That  hath  his  windows  glazed  with  Thine  eyes. 
Now  see  what  good  turns  eyes  for  eyes  have  done: 
Mine  eyes  have  drawn  Thy  shape,  and  Thine  for  me 
Are  windows  to  My  breast,  where-through  the  sun 
Delights  to  peep,  to  gaze  therein  on  Thee; 

Yet  eyes  this  cunning  want  to  grace  their  art,  — 
They  draw  but  what  they  see,  know  not  the  heart. 


IN  THE  SOI^NETS.  49 

The  first  step  in  the  preparation  of  a  drama  is 
outlined  in  this  stanza:  "  Mine  eye  hath  play'd 
the  painter,  and  hath  stelPd  thy  beauty's  ,forni 
in  table  of  my  heart "  (he  has  thought  his  sub- 
ject into  form,  and  graven  it  upon  his  memory). 
"  My  body  is  the  frame  wherein  't  is  held ''  (it  has 
not  been  written,  but  he  is  inspired  with  it).  He 
sees  it  in  perspective  as  a  work  of  which  this  first 
conception  is  the  most  difficult  part,  for  through 
the  conception  he  can  learn  where  it  should  be 
adorned  in  the  composition.  The  picture  (in  his 
fancy),  "bosom's  shop,"  is  to  be  illuminated  by 
Truth;  thus  having  furnished  the  creation,  he 
subjects  it  to  a  philosophical,  truthful  considera- 
tion, or,  in  the  language  of  the  stanza,  "  Mine 
eyes  have  drawn  Thy  shape,  and  Thine  (Truth) 
for  me  are  windows  to  My  breast,  where-through 
the  sun  delights  to  peep,  to  gaze  therein  on  Thee  " 
(on  his  thoughts).  But  this  is  only  a  commence- 
ment. This  consideration  in  itself  is  superficial. 
It  must  be  followed  by  another  that  will  reveal 
"  the  heart "  (the  inner  nature). 

Sonnet  25.  

Let  those  wno  are  in  favourwitli  their  stars. 
Of  publicnionokr  afrcl  proud  titles  ooast. 
Whilst  I,  whom  fortune  of  such  triumph  bars, 
Unlook'd  for  joy  in  that  I  honour  most. 
Great  princes'  favourites  their  fair  leaves  spread 
But  as  the  marigold  at  the  sun's  eye, 
And  in  themselves  their  pride  lies  buried, 
For  at  a  frown  they  in  their  glory  die. 
4 


50  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

The  painful  warrior  famoused  for  fight, 

After  a  thousand  victories  once  foil'd, 

Is  from  the  book  of  honour  razed  quite, 

And  all  the  rest  forgot  for  which  he  toil'd: 
Then  happy  I,  that  love  and  am  belov'd. 
Where  I  may  not  remove,  nor  be  remov'd. 

In  this  stanza  he  contrasts  the  delight  which 
he  derives  from  the  delineation  of  Truth  in  dra- 
matic composition,  with  that  enjoyed  by  those 
who  are  honored  with  titles  and  favored  by  their 
sovereign.  While  they  enjoy  these  princely  fa- 
vors, the  fruit  of  much  toil,  and  personal  consid- 
eration, he  enjoys  a  pursuit  that  has  come  to  him 
unsought.  They,  like  the  marigold  which  wilts  in 
the  excessive  heat  of  the  sun,  die  in  the  height  of 
their  renown,  at  a  frown  from  their  sovereign. 
The  gallant  soldier,  who  has  been  successful  on  a 
thousand  battle-fields,  is  shorn  of  his  glory  in  a 
moment,  and  his  great  achievements,  as  well  as 
he  himself,  forgotten.  How  much  happier  is  he 
in  an  occupation  suited  to  his  taste,  and  subject 
to  none  of  these  terrible  reverses  I 


Sonnet  26. 
Lord  of  My  Love,  to  whom  in  vassalage 
Thy  merit  hath  my  duty  strongly  knit. 
To  Thee  I  send  this  written  embassage. 
To  witness  duty,  not  to  show  My  wit: 
Duty  so  great,  which  wit  so  poor  as  Mine 
May  make  seem  bare,  in  wanting  words  to  show  it, 
But  that  I  hope  some  good  conceit  of  Thine 
In  Thy  soul's  thought,  all  naked,  will  bestow  it; 


IN  THIS  SONNETS.  51 

Till  whatsoever  star  that  guides  My  moving 
Points  on  me  graciously  with  fair  aspect, 
And  puts  apparel  on  My  tatter'd  loving, 
To  show  me  worthy  of  Thy  sweet  respect: 

Then  may  I  dare  to  l)oast  how  I  do  love  Thee; 

Till  then,  not  show  My  head  where  Thou  mayst  prove  me. 

The  second  step  in  the  process  of  composing  a 
drama  is  described  in  this  stanza.     "Lord  of  my 
love.''     Thou    (Truth)    is   the   impersonation,   or 
more  properly  the  attribute,  of  his  own  nature, 
that  he  addresses.     He  is  the  lord  of  "my  love," 
and  "my  love"  is  his  dramas,  the  product  of  his 
labors.     As  fast  as  a  new  drama  is  completed,  it  is 
added  to  the  impersonation  which  he  calls  "  my 
love."     Thou  is  his  "  vassal "  (servant),  and  being 
Truth,  he  is  from  dutiful  consideration  conjoined 
to  him.     In  pursuance  of  that  duty,  he  submits  to 
him  "this  written  embassage"  (the  truths  which 
he  intends  to  illustrate  in  his  dramas).     They  are 
evidently  bare,  disconnected,  separate,  and  "  want- 
ing words  "  (void  of  individuality  to  show  their 
meaning).     But   Thou  will  conceive  a  plan  "  in 
Thy  souPs  thought"  (in  his  thoughts),  and  "all 
naked  will  bestow  it"  (and  not  impair  its  purity). 
Then   the   "star   that  guides    My  moving"   (his 
powers  of  expression)  will  "put  apparel  on   My 
tatter'd  loving"  (will  dress  it  in  words  and  fig- 
ures), which  will  be  approved  by  Thy  (Thought). 
Then  he  will  be  willing  that  the  world  should  see 
it,  but  "  till  then  not  show  My  head  where  Thou 
(Truth)  mayst  prove  me."    (Until  the  composition 


52  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

is  completed,  he  will  keep  it  concealed,  lest  in 
these  '^  tatters,"  gathered  from  the  writers  of  past 
ages,  he  (the  writer)  will  be  exposed  as  a  plagiar- 
ist and  thief,  and  thereby  deprive  the  dramas  of 
the  influence  and  ejffect  intended  for  them  in  their 
creation.) 

Archbishop  Tenison,  who  was  really  the  liter- 
ary executor  of  Bacon,  found  among  his  papers 
one  bearing  the  title  of  "Ornamenta  Rationalia,  a 
collection  of  certain  weighty  and  elegant  sen- 
tences." The  collection  of  sentences,  which  had 
evidently  been  at  some  former  time  enclosed  in 
this  paper,  were  never  found.  It  is  fair  to  .pre- 
sume, from  the  title  given  them  (Ornaments  of 
Truth),  that  they  had  served  the  purpose  designed 
for  them,  and  been  destroyed.  This  collection 
and  the  Promus  probably  constituted  that  'Hat- 
ter'd  loving"  referred  to  in  the  stanza. 


Sonnet  27. 
Weary  with  toil  I  haste  Me  to  My  hed. 
The  dear  repose  for  limbs  with  travel  tir'd. 
But  then  begins  a  journey  in  My  head, 
To  work  My  mind,  when  body's  work 's  expir'd;' 
For  then  My  thoughts,  from  far  where  I  abide. 
Intend  a  zealous  pilgrimage  to  Thee, 
And  keep  My  drooping  eyelids  open  wide, 
Looking  on  darkness,  which  the  blind  do  see: 
Save  that  My  soul's  imaginary  sight 
Presents  Thy  shadow  to  My  sightless  view, 
Which,  like  a  jewel  hung  in  ghastly  night, 
Makes  black  night  beautsous,  and  her  old  face  new. 
Lo,  thus,  by  day  My  limbs,  by  night  My  mind. 
For  Thee  and  for  Myself  no  quiet  find. 


AY  THE  SONNETS.  53 

The  work  of  composition  is  still  progressing. 
Bacon,  at  the  period  of  his  life  which  this  stanza 
prefigures,  was  a  young  man,  pursuing  his  legal 
studies  at  Gray's  Inn.  He  was  very  studious,  and 
"encountered  and  subdued  the  difficulties  and 
obscurities  of  the  science  in  which  he  was  doomed 
to  labor."  It  was  after  the  daity  "toil"  which 
this  course  of  life  imposed,  and  he  had  retired  to 
his  "bed,"  that  there  would  begin  "a  journey  in 
My  head  to  work  My  mind "  (he  would  contem- 
plate, arrange,  and  fill  up  the  parts  of  his  drama). 
His  thoughts  would  lead  him  "from  far  where  I 
abide "  (to  the  countries  and  cities  where  his 
scenes  were  located)  on  a  "  zealous  pilgrimage  to 
Thee  "  (with  Thought  alone  for  his  guide).  De- 
spite the  "  darkness  "  of  his  chamber,  he  was  kept 
awake,  and  his  imagination  presented  Thought  to 
him  in  such  variety,  that,  like  a  diamond,  it  shone 
through  the  darkness,  and  illuminated  the  night 
with  beauty,  giving  to  all  around  a  new  appear- 
ance. The  unceasing  labor  of  body  by  day,  and 
Thought  by  night,  gave  no  rest  to  him,  or  to 
Thought. 

Sonnet  28. 
How  can  I,  then,  return  in  happy  plight, 
That  am  debarr'd  the  benefit  of  rest  ? 
When  day's  oppression  is  not  eas'd  by  night, 
But  day  by  night,  and  night  by  day,  oppress'd  ? 
And  each,  though  enemies  to  either's  reign, 
Do  in  consent  shake  hands  to  torture  Me; 
The  one  by  toil,  the  other  to  complain 
How  far  I  toil,  still  farther  off  from  Tliee. 


54  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

I  tell  the  day,  to  please  him  Thou  are  bright 
And  dost  him  grace  when  clouds  do  blot  the  heaven: 
So  flatter  I  the  s  wart-complexion 'd  night, 
When  sparkling  stars  twire  not  Thou  glid'st  the  even. 
But  day  doth  daily  draw  My  sorrows  longer, 
And  night  doth  nightly  make  grief's  strength  seem  stronger. 

The  care  and  anxiety  inseparable  from  these 
labors  are  described  in  this  stanza.  He  is  so  worn 
in  both  body  and  mind,  for  want  of  repose,  that 
he  cannot  preserve  his  customary  deportment  or 
amiability.  The  toil  of  the  day  is  unrelieved  by 
sleep,  and  the  thoughts  which  usurp  his  slumbers 
render  the  day  burdensome.  Day  and  night  are 
equally  heavy, — one  by  the  labor  it  brings,  the 
other  by  the  perplexities  which  fill  his  thoughts. 
All  efforts  of  his  to  reconcile  these  afflictions  are 
thwarted  by  the  consciousness  that  the  day's  work 
is  unsuited  to  his  nature,  and  hateful  in  his  eyes; 
while  the  work  at  night  is  constantly  presenting 
new  difficulties, — making  "  grief's  strength  seem 
stronger." 

Sonnet  29. 

When,  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 

I  all  alone  beweep  My  outcast  state, 

And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  My  bootless  cries, 

And  look  upon  Myself  and  curse  My  fate, 

Wishing  Me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 

Featur'd  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possess'd, 

Desiring  this  man's  art  and  that  man's  scope, 

With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least; 

Yet  in  these  thoughts  Myself  almost  despising, 

Haply  I  think  on  Thee,  and  then  My  state 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  55 

(Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising) 
From  sullen  earth  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate: 
For  Thy  sweet  love  remember'd  such  wealth  brings, 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  My  state  with  kings. 

The  poignancy  of  grief  expressed  in  this  stanza 
singularly  illustrates  what  we  may  conceive  to 
have  been  the  condition  of  so  sensitive  a  per- 
son as  Lord  Bacon,  when  by  the  death  of  his 
father  he  was  recalled  from  France,  and  forced 
to  make  choice  of  a  pursuit  (the  law)  repugnant 
to  him  as  the  only  means  of  obtaining  a  liveli- 
hood. He  was  "in  disgrace  with  fortune '' (with- 
out means)  "and  men's  eyes  (unappreciated)." 
His  state,  from  being  that  of  a  child  petted  by  the 
queen  and  nobility  on  account  of  his  high  birth, 
was  changed  to  that  of  a  young  man  whose  only 
prospect  for  success  in  life  depended  upon  the 
kindness  of  relatives  and  friends  in  official  posi- 
tion at  the  court  of  Elizabeth.  His  tastes  and 
studies  were  philosophical,  and  until  this  misfor- 
tune came,  he  expected  to  devote  his  life  to  seden- 
tary pursuits  and  the  study  of  nature.  Nothing 
now  was  left  him  but  a  choice  between  the  law, 
which  he  hated,  and  a  position  as  an  officer  of 
the  realm.  With  the  hope  of  obtaining  the  one, 
he  gave  faithful  but  unwilling  service  to  the  other. 
His  life  at  Gray's  Inn  was  reclusive,  and  his  rela- 
tives were  cold  and  unapproachable.  That  he 
should  feel  himself  to  be  an  "outcast"  was  not 
surprising,  and  that  all  the  experience  described 


56  BACOK  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

in  the  stanza  should  have  been  his  was  but  a 
natural  result  of  the  great  disappointment  which 
had  made  such  changes  in  his  plans  and  hopes. 
His  ardent  prayers  were  to  a  "deaf  heaven"  (not 
answered).  No  regrets  could  change  his  lot.  He 
saw  his  cousin,  Bobert  Cecil,  son  of  Lord  Bur- 
leigh, favored  by  gifts  and  laden  with  honoi*s  by 
the  queen,  as  he  would  have  been  had  his  father 
lived.  Though  he  might  wish  for  the  same  privi- 
leges, for  the  same  resources,  for  the  same  friends, 
and  desire  their  aid,  their  facilities,  their  powers, 
they  would  not  come  at  his  bidding.  (He  was  dis- 
contented with  the  pursuit  he  had  been  forced  to 
adopt),  "with  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least." 
In  this  state,  he  undoubtedly  felt  "myself  almost 
despising  (that  his  life  was  of  little  use  to  him- 
self)." With  no  recreation  to  break  the  gloom  of 
these  and  like  reflections,  he  was  led  to  consider 
the  variety,  scope,  and  beauty  of  his  own  thoughts, 
and  they  had  enkindled  in  him  the  idea  of  present- 
ing Truth  in  character,  in  dramatic  composition. 
That  resource  was  an  abundant  antidote.  While 
engaged  in  that  he  was  happy.  Like  the  lark  in 
his  morning  song,  he  could  sing  a  heavenly  song, 
and  he  would  not  exchange  the  pleasure  it  afforded 
him  for  all  the  splendor  of  the  court. 

A  thoughtful  consideration  of  this  and  several 
of  the  succeeding  stanzas  of  this  poem,  especially 
of  the  closing  couplet, — 

"For  Thy  sweet  love  remember'd  such  wealth  brings, 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  My  state  with  kings," 


ri^  THE  SONi^EfS.  67 

has  led  me  to  believe  that  they  are  intended  to 
convey  a  double  meaning.  Most  of  the  time 
while  at  Gray's  Inn,  Bacon  was  in  straitened 
circumstances,  owing  to  his  extravagant  habits. 
His  life,  as  gathered  from  the  letters  which  passed 
between  himself  and  his  mother,  published  in  Mr. 
Dixon's  book,  shows  that  she  was  at  times  put  to 
great  straits  to  raise  money  to  relieve  him  and  his 
brother  Anthony  from  foolish  debts.  She  is  con- 
stantly warning  him  against  contracting  them. 
He  was  also  at  this  time  fond  of  the  theatre,  and 
took  part  as  an  amateur  in  one  or  more  masks 
and  plays  which  he  had  aided  in  composing  for 
special  occasions.  This  poem  in  its  further  devel- 
opments will  show  that  very  soon  after  he  began  to 
compose  his  dramas  he  conveyed  them,  author- 
ship and  all,  to  Shakespeare.  This  must  have 
been  in  pursuance  of  some  previous  understand- 
ing of  longer  or  shorter  date;  and  in  view  thereof, 
it  is  not  improbable  that  at  this  very  time  he  was 
sharing  with  Shakespeare  in  his  receipts  from 
Blackfriars  Theatre. 

In   the   twenty-first   stanza,  after   speaking   of 
other  poets,  he  says:  — 

"  Let  them  say  more  that  like  of  hearsay  well; 
I  will  not  praise  that  purpose  not  to  sell." 

He  must  have  seen  then  as  well  as  afterwards 
that  he  could  not  figure  in  the  court  of  Elizabeth 
as  a  playwright,  lawyer,  and  statesman.  Yet  ''he 
purposed  not  to  sell,"  but  he  had  previously,  in  all 


58  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

probability,  purposed  to  make  his  writings  a  source 
of  revenue,  which  was  accomplished  by  a  different 
arrangement.  This  subject  will  be  considered  at 
greater  length  in  the  light  of  stronger  facts  here- 
after disclosed. 

Sonnet  30. 
When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 
I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 
And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste: 
Then  can  I  drown  an  eye  (unus'd  to  flow), 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 
And  weep  afresh  love's  long  since  cancell'd  woe, 
And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanish'd  sight; 
Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 
The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 
Wliich  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  Thee  (dear  friend) 
All  losses  are  restor'd  and  sorrows  end. 

The  retrospect  of  his  life  in  this  stanza  but 
sharpens  his  sorrows.  The  life  he  had  prefigured 
for  himself,  in  earlier  and  more  fortunate  days, 
had  not  been  realized.  Many  privileges  and  en- 
joyments which  he  had  then  anticipated  never 
came  to  him.  One  grief  had  followed  another  all 
the  way:  first  he  mourned  the  loss  of  ** precious 
friends  "  (his  father  and  others  who  would  have 
assisted  him),  then  *' lovers  long  since  cancelled 
woe"  (probably  a  sweetheart  who  had  died,  or 
mayhap  jilted  him),  then  "many  a  vanished  sight" 
(his  early  home  and  its  associations,  the  kindness 


m  THE  SONNETS.  59 

of  the  queen  and  nobility).  These  had  given 
place  to  an  obscure  life  of  study  and  monotony  at 
Gray's  Inn.  These  early  trials  and  disappoint- 
ments increased  his  despondency  and  saddened 
his  life.  He  sought  and  found  ample  relief  from 
these  troubles  in  the  world  of  his  own  creation, — 
the  truth,  beauty,  and  character  he  was  delineating 
in  his  dramas. 

Another  interpretation  of  this  stanza  would  seem 
to  point  to  his  wants  as  a  student.  He  "  sighs  the 
lack  of  many  things  he  sought "  (he  is  in  want  of 
books,  furniture,  clothing,  means  of  enjoyment). 
Much  of  his  time,  which  would  be  given  to  study 
were  he  thus  supplied,  is  lost,  to  his  great  regret. 
Those  old  ''friends''  (his  books)  have  been  gone 
for  years,  and  the  privileges  he  once  enjoyed  have 
vanished.  He  has  been  compelled  to  contract 
debts,  the  "  sad  account "  of  which  has  greatly  dis- 
tressed him.  But  his  "  dear  friend  "  (Shakespeare) 
having  come  to  his  relief,  he  is  enabled  to  purchase 
such  things  as  are  needed,  and  all  "  sorrows  end." 


Sonnet  31. 

Thy  bosom  is  endeared  with  all  hearts, 

Which  I  by  lacking  have  supposed  dead, 

And  there  reigns  love,  and  all  love's  loving  parts, 

And  all  those  friends  which  I  thought  buried. 

How  many  a  holy  and  obsequious  tear 

Hath  dear  religious  love  stolen  from  Mine  eye 

As  interest  of  the  dead,  which  now  appear 

But  things  remov'd  that  hidden  in  Thee  lie! 


50  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Thou  art  the  grave  where  buried  love  doth  live, 
Hung  with  the  trophies  of  My  lovers  gone, 
Who  all  their  parts  of  me  to  Thee  did  givej 
That  due  of  many  now  is  Thine  alone: 
Their  images  I  lov'd  I  view  in  Thee, 
And  Thou  (all  they)  hast  all  the  all  of  Me. 

Thy  (Thought),  in  this  stanza,  is  represented  as 
directing  his  attention  to  the  stories  and  tales  he 
had  read  in  his  youth.  They  were  the  "hearts 
which  I  by  lacking  have  supposed  dead  "  (he  had 
dismissed  them  from  his  thoughts  as  one  who, 
after  reading,  dismisses  a  novel).  The  search  for 
a  subject  to  dramatize  had  revived  the  memory  of 
them.  They  furnished  the  framework  of  his  great 
creations  in  illustrating  Truth,  and  thus  became 
to  him  "  love  and  all  love's  loving  parts.'*  He  re- 
membered how  they  affected  him  when  he  first 
read  them,  but  now  that  he  eould  make  a  better 
use  of  them,  they  seemed  to  him  as  "things  re- 
moved that  hidden  in  Thee  lie  "  (as  things  which 
had  remained  unnoticed  in  his  memory,  until, 
w^hile  seeking  for  parts  to  illustrate  the  truth  he 
had  in  view,  like  hidden  things  they  came  to 
light).  When  examined  he  found  that  by  dress- 
ing them  in  his  own  thoughts  and  fancy,  they 
were  the  materials  he  most  needed;  they  furnished 
truth,  beauty,  and  parts.  The  "images"  he  saw 
in  them  in  youth  came  back  to  his  thoughts  now, 
and  he  adopted  them  as  the  subjects  of  his  dramas. 
We  need  look  no  further  for  the  motives  which 
led  him  to  adapt  his  plays  from  the  stories  of 
former  ages. 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  61 

Sonnet  32. 
If  Thou  survive  My  well-contented  day, 
When  that  churl  Death  My  bones  with  dust  shall  cover, 
And  shalt  by  fortune  once  more  re-survey 
These  poor  rude  lines  of  Thy  deceased  lover, 
Compare  them  witli  the  bettering  of  the  time, 
And  though  they  be  outstripp'd  by  every  pen, 
*  Reserve  them  for  My  Love,  not  for  their  rhyme, 
Exceeded  by  the  height  of  happier  men. 
0,  then  vou chafe  me  but  this  loving  thought: 
"Had  My  friend's  Muse  grown  with  his  growing  age, 
A  dearer  birth  than  this  his  love  had  brought, 
To  march  in  ranks  of  better  equipage; 

But  since  he  died,  and  poets  better  prove. 

Theirs  for  their  style  I  '11  read.  His  for  His  Love." 

The  object  of  this  stanza  is  to  direct  those  who, 
in  after  generations,  should  seek  for  the  meaning 
of  this  poem,  to  study  it,  not  for  any  beauty  in  its 
composition,  but  solely  to  discover  who  was  its 
author.  There  is  very  little  to  admire  in  its  style, 
as  compared  with  the  works  of  the  poets  of  suc- 
ceeding ages,  therefore  "reserve  them  for  My 
Love,  not  for  their  rhyme''  (My  Love  person- 
ated his  dramas).  Study  them  to  ascertain  who 
Shakespeare  was,  and  who  I  am.  Think,  if  you 
please,  that  if  I  had  lived  and  cultivated  my 
powers  I  would  have  written  better,  but  as  I  did 
not,  and  your  poets  excel  me,  give  no  heed  to  my 
style,  but  read  my  poem  to  ascertain  the  meaning 
of  >he  history  it  contains.  One  readily  infers 
from  this  that  Bacon  appreciated  his  dramatic 
writings  at  their  full  worth,  and  derived  great 
delight  from  the  thought  that  future  ages  would 


62  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

discover  that  he  was  their  author,  and  do  justice 
to  his  memory. 

Sonnet  33. 
Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sovereign  eye, 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green, 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy; 
Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face, 
And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide, 
Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace: 
Even  so  My  sun  one  early  mom  did  shine, 
With  all-triumphant  splendour  on  My  brow; 
But  out,  alack  !  he  was  but  one  hour  Mine, 
The  region  cloud  hath  mask'd  him  from  Me  now. 

Yet  him  for  this  My  Love  no  whit  disdaineth; 

Suns  of  the  world  may  stain,  when  heaven's  sun  staineth. 

This  majestic  verse  fittingly  describes  his  brief 
hour  of  enjoyment  when  his  first  drama  ("My 
sun")  was  completed.  It  is  very  beautiful.  As 
the  sun  which  renders  the  morning  glorious  by 
flattering  the  mountain-tops,  kissing  the  green 
meadows,  and  gilding  the  pale  streams  with  its 
rays,  is  suddenly  obscured  by  dark  clouds,  until 
its  setting,  so  his  sun  one  "early  morn  did  shine 
with  all-triumphant  splendour  on  my  brow"  (he 
had  triumphed  over  all  diflSculties  in  the  composi- 
tion of  his  work,  and  brought  it  to  completion).  It 
was  like  the  glory  of  morning  sunlight  to  him. 
Alas!  ''he  was  but  one  hour  Mine"  (he  was 
obliged  by  his  position  in  life  to  give  it,  with  all 
its  beauty,  to  another).     "The  region  cloud  hath 


m  THE  SONNETS,  63 

mask'd  him  from  me  now"  (his  right  to  it  was 
like  that  of  one  who  concealed  his  person  and 
features  with  a  mask  to  escape  recognition). 
Shakespeare,  "the  region  cloud/'  stood  between 
him  and  that  sun  at  that  moment,  and  has  masked 
him  from  the  world  ever  since.  Yet  ''My  Love" 
(his  drama)' was  no  more  affected  by  this  change 
over  the  earthly  sun  than  the  earth  by  the  clouds 
that  hid  the  heavenly  sun.  The  darkness  was  all 
to  him  alone. 

Sonnet  34. 
Why  didst  Thou  promise  such  a  beauteous  day, 
And  make  me  travel  forth  without  My  cloak, 
To  let  base  clouds  o'ertake  Me  in  My  way, 
Hiding  Thy  bravery  in  Isheir  rotten  smoke  ? 
"T  is  not  enough  that  through  the  cloud  Thou  break, 
To  dry  the  rain  on  My  storm-beaten  face, 
For  no  man  well  of  such  a  salve  can  speak 
That  heals  the  wound  and  cures  not  the  disgrace: 
Nor  can  Thy  shame  give  physic  to  My  grief; 
Though  Thou  repent,  yet  I  have  still  the  loss: 
The  oflfender's  sorrow  lends  but  weak  relief 
To  him  that  bears  the  strong  offence's  cross. 

Ah!  but  those  tears  are  pearl  which  Thy  love  sheds, 
And  they  are  rich  and  ransom  all  ill  deeds. 

He  tells  in  this  stanza  how  he  became  dis- 
possessed of  his  dramas.  As  if  angry  with  Thou 
(Truth),  he  asks  why  the  promise  was  made  of  so 
much  fame  in  his  work,  as  he  was  to  lose  it  all  so 
soon.  He  was  in  distress  for  means  to  live,  ''with- 
out my  cloak,"  and  possibly  threatened  with  ar- 
rest, "base  clouds"  overtook  him  on  his  way.     In 


64  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

this  extremity  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  might 
dispose  of  his  play  to  some  theatrical  manager. 
Shakespeare,  a  young  fellow  in  pursuit  of  fortune, 
was  at  the  time  a  shareholder  in  Blackfriars  The- 
atre. Thou's  (Truth's)  "bravery"  (Truth's  in- 
corruptibility)  was  hid  "in  the  rotten  smoke" 
of  the  clouds  (in  the  unpleasant  embarrassments 
that  were  threatening  the  author).  Bacon  found 
Shakespeare,  and  arranged  with  him  to  assume 
authorship  of  the  drama.  The  sacrifice  was  made 
with  less  reluctance,  because  he  could  not,  without 
destroying  all  his  future  prospects,  be  known  as 
the  writer  of  plays  for  the  theatre.  The  play  thus 
disposed  of  was  probably  "The  History  of  the 
Contention  between  the  Houses  of  Lancaster  and 
York,"  his  first  effort.  It  was  afterwards  incorpo- 
rated in  the  play  of  Henry  VI.  We  learn  from 
the  history  of  the  dramas  that  this  play  and  the 
"True  Tragedy  of  the  Duke  of  York"  were  per- 
formed before  the  poems  of  "  Venus  and  Adonis  " 
and  "  Lucrece  "  were  published,  of  both  of  which 
Shakespeare  appeared  as  author.  This  play  was 
first  published  without  the  name  of  an  author,  but 
Green,  who  by  many  critics  is  supposed  to  have 
aided  in  its  composition,  alludes  unmistakably  to 
Shakespeare  as  connected  with  it,  in  his  "  Groates- 
worth  of  Wit."  This  arrangement  probably  marks 
the  period,  not  later  than  1592,  when  the  friend- 
ship commenced  between  Bacon  and  Shakespeare. 
It  appears  from  this  stanza  that  the  arrange- 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  05 

ment  was  of  Bacon's  own  seeking.  Allegorically 
he  charges  the  offence  to  that  attribute  of  himself, 
Thou  (Truth),  because  it  was  untruthful  to  per- 
mit the  play  to  appear  as  Shakespeare's.  During 
the  transaction  Thou  is  represented  as  breaking 
through  the  clouds  with  a  smile  of  encouragement, 
which,  while  it  ''  heals  the  wound  "  (sanctions  the 
act), ''cures  not  the  disgrace  "  (does  not  relieve 
him  of  the  shame).  Then  the  address  changes  to 
"Thy's  shame,"  or  the  wrong  done  to  his  own 
thoughts,  which  he  sees  in  Shakespeare.  ''Nor 
can  Thy  shame  give  physic  to  My  grief"  (Shake- 
speare's part  in  the  purchase  did  not  remove  any 
of  the  offensive  features  of  the  act).  Any  deli- 
cacy he  might  feel  in  assuming  the  authorship 
did  not  restore  the  play  to  the  true  w^riter  of  it. 
It  was  gone  from  him  forever.  There  was  this 
consolation:  "Those  tears  are  pearl  which  Thy  love 
sheds"  (he  has  received  substantial  pay  for  the 
play).  "  And  they  are  rich  and  ransom  all  ill 
deeds  "  (and  that  compensates  for  all  that  is  wrong 
in  the  transaction  between  them). 


Sonnet  35. 

No  more  be  griev'd  at  that  which  Thou  hast  done: 
Roses  have  thorns,  and  silver  fountains  mud; 
Clouds  and  eclipses  stain  both  moon  and  sun, 
And  loathsome  canker  lives  in  sweetest  bud. 
All  men  make  faults,  and  even  I  in  this, 
Authorizing  Thy  trespass  with  compare, 
5 


66  BACON  AND  SnAKESPEARE 

Myself  corrupting,  balving  Thy  amiss, 
Excusing  Thy  sins  more  than  Thy  sins  are; 
For  to  Thy  sensual  fault  I  bring  in  sense,  — 
Thy  adverse  party  is  Thy  advocate,  — 
And  'gainst  Myself  a  lawful  plea  commence. 
Such  civil  war  is  in  My  love  and  hate 
That  I  an  accessary  needs  must  be 
To  that  sweet  thief  which  sourly  robs  from  Me. 


In  this  stanza  he  clears  up  any  possible  doubt 
of  the  meaning  of  the  previous  stanza,  and  virtu- 
ally acknowledges  the  arrangement  to  have  been 
of  his  own  seeking.  Thou  (Truth)  is  told  not  to 
grieve,  as  his  offence  is  a  very  natural  one.  It  is 
no  worse  than  a  thorn  to  a  rose,  mud  to  a  silver 
fountain,  or  canker  to  a  bud.  So  also  of  the  shame 
of  Shakespeare.  Your  fault  is  no  worse  than  the 
faults  which  all  men  make.  By  authorizing  it,  he 
(Bacon)  has  corrupted  himself,  and  is  more  to  be 
despised  than  Shakespeare,  whose  fault  appears 
greater  than  it  really  is.  The  sensual  or  shameful 
part  of  it  he  alone  is  responsible  for,  as  the  con- 
flict in  his  feelings  has  necessarily  made  him  the 
''accessary"  of  Thou,  "that  sweet  thief,"  in  the 
arrangement.  In  plainer  phrase,  he  is  the  only 
person  blamable  in  the  affair. 


Sonnet  36. 

Let  Me  confess  that  we  two  must  be  twain, 
Although  our  undivided  loves  are  one; 
So  shall  those  blots  that  do  with  Me  remain. 
Without  Thy  help,  by  Me  be  borne  alone. 


m  THE  SONNETS.  67 

In  our  two  loves  there  is  but  one  respect, 
Though  in  our  lives  a  separable  spite, 
Wliich  though  it  alter  not  love's  sole  eflfect, 
Yet  doth  it  steal  sweet  hours  from  love's  delight. 
I  may  not  evermore  acknowledge  Thee, 
Lest  My  bewailed  guilt  should  do  Thee  shame; 
Kor  Thou  with  public  kindness  honour  Me, 
Unless  Thou  take  that  honour  from  Thy  namej 
But  do  not  so;  I  love  Thee  in  such  sort 
As,  Thou  being  Mine,  Mine  is  Thy  good  report. 

In  this  and  the  throe  following  stanzas,  addressed 
to  Thy  (Thought),  he  tells  him  what  his  plan  is  foi* 
concealing  from  the  public  the  part  he  is  to  play 
in  the  composition  of  the  dramas.  He  and  Shake- 
speare must  live  divided  ("  be  twain''),  in  other, 
words,  they  must  live  as  if  strangers  to  each  other. 
Their  objects  ("loves")  are  of  course  undivided. 
But  by  this  arrangement,  none  of  the  stains  which 
affect  him  now,  or  none  that  he  may  hereafter  in- 
cur, will  ever  reach  Shakespeare  or  the  dramas. 
Their  object  in  common  is  to  compose  and  present 
the  plays.  It  is  a  business, — a  partnership,  noth- 
ing more.  In  their  lives  there  is  a  "separable 
spite"  (Bacon  is  a  lawyer  of  noble  family,  soon 
to  become  a  courtier,  politician,  statesman,  and 
public  officer,  liable  at  any  time  to  occupy  high 
position,  and  to  be  ennobled  by  Elizabeth;  Shake- 
speare is  a  young  actor  at  Blackfriars,  and  his 
habits  and  occupation  will  forbid  his  access  to  the 
society  of  which  Bacon  is  an  ornament).  This 
great  difference  in  their  lives  and  pursuits  will 
*•  alter  not  love's  sole  effect"  (not  disturb  the  great 


68  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

object  of  making  money  in  their  business),  what- 
ever its  influence  over  their  social  relations.  A 
time  may  come  when  Bacon  will  find  it  necessary 
to  ignore  Shakespeare,  to  save  him  from  the  mis- 
haps of  his  own  life.  He  may  be  obliged  to  cease 
writing,  and  then  Thou  (Truth)  will  no  longer 
honor  him  in  theatrical  representation,  unless 
Thou  should  take  the  honor  from  Shakespeare's 
own  labors.  He  advises  Shakespeare  against  en- 
gaging in  any  such  labors,  because  Thou  (Truth) 
is  his  own  henchman,  and  the  plays  he  has  written 
"Thy  good  report"  (are  the  product  of  his  own 
^thoughts). 

Sonnet  37. 
As  a  decrepit  father  takes  delight 
To  see  his  active  child  do  deeds  of  youth, 
So  I,  made  lame  by  fortune's  dearest  spite, 
Take  all  My  comfort  of  Thy  worth  and  truth  j 
For  whether  beauty,  birth,  or  wealth,  or  wil^ 
Or  any  of  these  all,  or  all,  or  more, 
Entitled  in  Thy  parts  do  crowned  sit, 
I  make  My  love  engrafted  to  this  store. 
So  then  I  am  not  lame,  poor,  nor  despis'd, 
Whilst  that  this  shadow  doth  such  substance  give, 
That  I  in  Thy  abundance  am  suffic'd, 
And  by  a  part  of  all  Thy  glory  live. 

Look,  what  is  best,  that  best  I  wish  in  Thee: 
Thia  wish  I  have;  then  ten  times  happy  Me  ! 

Continuing  the  address  to  Thy,  he  prefigures 
in  this  stanza  the  relationship  which  he  wishes 
to  fill  towards  Shakespeare.  As  a  father,  deprived 
by  his  infirmities  from  mingling  in  the  affairs 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  60 

of  society,  takes  great  pleasure  in  the  enterprise 
and  business  habits  of  his  son,  so  he,  "made  lame 
by  fortune's  dearest  spite"  (cut  off  by  the  death 
of  his  father  from  the  privileges,  enjoyments,  and 
titles  which  he  was  encouraged  to  anticipate  in 
his  youth),  will  supply  their  place  by  watchful  and 
gratifying  interest  in  Shakespeare's  "worth  and 
truth"  (in  the  public  appreciation  of  his  dramas, 
as  they  appear  in  Shakespeare's  name).  By  add- 
ing to  their  "beauty,  birth,  or  wealth,  or  wit,"  or 
to  any  other  qualities  which  their  "parts"  require, 
he  will  overcome  and  forget  his  misfortunes  and 
deprivations.  They  will  be  a  source  of  great 
delight  to  him  as  long  as  they  afford  him  ample 
revenue.  "That  I  in  Thy  abundance  am  suf- 
fic'd"  (and  his  part  of  the  proceeds  affords  him  a 
livelihood),  "and  by  a  part  of  all  Thy  glory  live  " 
(as  he  is  convinced  that  Shakespeare  means  well, 
is  honest  and  true,  he  is  more  than  satisfied  with 
the  arrangement  they  have  entered  into). 


Sonnet  38. 
How  can  My  Muse  want  subject  to  invent, 
While  Thou  dost  breathe,  thafc  pour's fc  into  My  verse 
Thine  own  sweet  argument,  too  excellent 
For  every  vulgar  paper  to  rehearse  ? 
O,  give  Thyself  the  thanks,  if  aught  in  Me 
Worthy  perusal  stand  agai.ist  Thy  sight; 
For  who  's  so  dumb  that  cannot  write  to  Tliee, 
When  Thou  Thyself  dost  give  invention  light  ? 
Bo  Thou  the  tenth  Muse,  ten  times  more  in  worth 
Than  theseold  nine  which  rhymers  invocate; 


70  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

And  he  that  calls  on  Thee,  let  him  bring  forth 

Eternal  numbers  to  outlive  long  date. 

If  My  slight  Muse  do  please  these  curious  days, 
The  pain  be  Mine,  but  Thine  shall  be  the  praise. 

In  this  stanza  he  tells  how  greatly  he  has  been 
relieved  in  his  circumstances  by  this  partnership 
with  Shakespeare.  He  can  write  now,  and  Thou 
(Truth),  being  ever  ready  to  assist  him  and  pour 
his  "own  sweet  argument  into  his  verse"  (the 
history  of  his  dramatic  works  into  this  poem), 
which  of  itself  excels  that  of  other  writers,  he  will 
not  want  for  subjects  to  write  about,  or  inveution. 
But  Shakespeare  may  thank  himself  for  it  if  the 
plays  are  a  success.  It  is  the  money,  and  the  ease 
and  freedom  from  care  which  that  brings,  that 
empowers  him  to  write;  but  it  is  Thou  (Truth),  as 
well  as  Thyself  (Thought  delineated),  which  gives 
*'  invention  light "  (enables  him  to  present  his 
dramas  to  the  world).  Thou  (Truth)  is  the  ''tenth 
Muse";  he  will  "bring  forth  eternal  numbers" 
(produce  immortal  lines).  If  this  poem  arouses 
my  curiosity  in  the  public,  let  all  the  sorrow  it 
contains  be  his,  and  all  the  "praise''  Shakespeare's. 


Sonnet  39. 

O,  how  Thy  worth  with  manners  may  I  sing, 

When  Thou  art  all  the  better  part  of  Me? 

Wliat  can  Mine  own  praise  to  Mine  own  self  bring  ? 

And  what  is  't  but  Mine  own,  when  I  praise  Thee  ? 

Even  for  this  let  us  divided  live, 

Aud  out  dear  love  lose  name  of  single  one, 


ry  THE  SONIiETS.  71 

That  by  this  separation  I  may  give 
That  due  to  Thee,  which  Thou  deserv'st  alone. 
O  absence,  what  a  torment  wouldst  Thou  prove, 
Were  it  not  Thy  sour  leisure  gave  sweet  leave 
To  entertain  the  time  with  thoughts  of  love. 
Which  time  and  thoughts  so  sweetly  doth  deceive, 
And  that  Thou  teachest  how  to  make  one  twain. 
By  praising  him  here  who  doth  hence  remain! 

Some  idea  of  the  personality  of  Shakespeare, 
and  of  Bacon's  appreciation  of  him,  is  given  in 
this  stanza,  addressed  to  Tliy  (Tliought): — 

**  O,  how  thy  worth  with  manners  may  I  sing. 
When  Thou  art  all  the  better  part  of  me  ?  "  — 

is  as  if  he  had  said,  How  can  I  praise  his  man- 
ners and  speak  the  truth  (Thou)  which  is  upper- 
most in  my  nature?  Shakespeare  may  have  been 
a  boor.  If  he  praises  himself,  what  does  it  amount 
to,  now  that  he  has  virtually  disclaimed  tlio 
dramas,  and  no  one  can  echo  that  praise?  If  he 
praises  Shakespeare,  that  is  simply  to  praise  him- 
self. For  these  reasons  it  is  better  they  should 
live  apart,  and  Bacon's  name  be  unknown.  He 
can  then  give  to  Shakespeare  alone  all  the  praise 
he  deserves.  Probably  when  writing  this  Bacon 
smiled  ironically,  for  what  praise  did  he  deserve? 
This  stanza  was  conceived  in  a  humorous  vein  all 
the  way  through.  After  jeering  at  Shakespeare's 
manners,  exposing  the  futility  of  attempting  to 
praise  himself,  and  the  effect,  as  he  realized  it,  of 
praising  Shakespeare,  and  recommending  their 
separate  life  that  he  may  praise  him  singly  as  he 


72  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

deserves,  he  then  says  that  he  has  during  an  hour 
of  absence  from  work  improved  the  "sour  leisure  " 
(the  time  so  grudgingly  taken),  to  fill  it  with 
*'  thoughts  of  love."  The  seeming  meaning  he  has 
given  to  the  thoughts  has  deceived  or  belied  their 
real  meaning,  —  which  was  simply  to  ridicule  the 
arrangement  between  himself  and  Shakespeare, 
"  praising  him  here  who  doth  hence  remain." 


Sonnet  40. 

Take  all  My  Loves,  My  Love,  yea,  take  them  all; 
What  hast  Thou  then  more  than  Thou  hadst  before  ? 
No  love,  My  Love,  that  Thou  mayst  true  love  call; 
All  mine  was  Thhio  before  Thou  hadst  this  more. 
Then  if  for  My  Love  thou  My  Love  receivest, 
I  cannot  blame  Thee,  for  Mij  Love  Thou  usest; 
But  yet  be  blamVl,  if  Thou  Thyself  deceivest 
By  wilful  taste  of  what  this  self  refusest. 
I  do  forgive  Thy  robbery,  gentle  thief, 
Although  Thou  steal  Thee  all  my  ^poverty; 
And  yet,  love  knows,  it  is  a  greater  grief 
To  bear  love's  wrong  than  hate's  known  injury. 
Lascivious  grace,  in  whom  all  ill  well  shows. 
Kill  me  with  spites;  yet  we  must  not  be  foea. 

In  this  stanza  Shakespeare  is  put  in  possession 
of  his  plays,  and  becomes  virtually  the  author  of 
them.  "Take  all  My  Loves,  My  Love"  (Shake- 
speare now  being  adopted  as  one  of  his  loves,  he 
mentally  as  my  love  unites  him  to  the  plays,  which 
he  calls  "My  Love,"  and  addresses  him  also  by  that 
endearing  name,  and  under  it  invests  him  with 
the  i)lays).     In  the  next  two  lines  he  declares  that 


m  THE  SONNETS.  73 

Thou  (Truth)  has  gained  nothing  by  this  transfer 
that  he  can  call "  true  love.''  Shakespeare,  though 
added  to  ''  My  Love,"  is  not  to  be  recognized  as  any 
part  of  the  truth  in  the  plays  designated  by  that 
title.  He  is  simply  added  to  it.  By  the  next  line, 
"All  mine  was  Thine  before  Thou  hadst  this 
more"  (he  had  devoted  all  his  dramas  to  Truth 
before  he  added  Shakespeare,  "this  more,"  to 
them).  By  giving  to  Shakespeare  the  credence  of 
the  plays,  and  thus  uniting  him  to  the  volume  of 
"My  Love,"  which  was  composed  of  truth.  Thou 
(Truth)  had  become  possessed  of  him.  If  Thou 
(Truth)  will  receive  him  as  "My  Love,"  then  he 
may  use  the  plays,  and  it  will  be  his  own  fault  if 
he  makes  use  of  any  portion  of  them  that  his 
judgment  disapproves.  He  is  the  manager,  and 
must  adapt  them  for  proper  representation.  "  I 
do  forgive  Thy  [Thought's]  robbery,  gentle  thief, 
although  Thou  [Truth]  steal  Thee  all  my  poverty  " 
(his  only  poverty  in  a  literary  sense  was  Shake- 
speare. He  (Bacon)  is  satisfied  with  the  arrange- 
ment, though  he  (Bacon)  loses  all  that  he  might 
gain  in  honor  and  renown,  by  being  known  as  their 
author).  The  changes  he  will  make  in  them  \w\\\  be 
like  a  "lascivious  grace,  in  whom  all  ill  well  shows" 
(like  a  well-dressed  wanton;  it  will  not  be  to  his 
taste).  "Kill  me  with  spite"  (but  rather  than 
quarrel  about  it  he  will  not  object).  "  We  must 
not  be  foes  "  (because  of  any  improprieties  in  this 
transaction). 


74  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

The  eighth  line  reads  "this  self  in  the  quarto 
of  1609.  This,  as  referring  back  to  "this  more" 
(Shakespeare)  in  the  fourth  line,  is  undoubtedly 
correct.     All  modern  editions  have  it  "  Thyself." 

The  understanding  between  Bacon  and  Shake- 
speare provided  for  the  payment  to  Bacon  of  one 
half  of  the  profits  accruing  from  the  plays,  as  ap- 
pears in  the  tliirty-seventh  stanza.  White  says 
that  "  play-going  was  the  favorite  amusement  of 
all  the  better  and  brighter  part  of  the  London 
public,  gentle  and  simple."  The  profits  which 
made  Shakespeare  rich  must  have  greatly  in- 
creased the  meagre  exchequer  of  Bacon.  The 
arrangement  was  to  continue  until  brighter  days 
came  to  Bacon,  and  he  could  from  his  profession 
or  public  oflSce  reap  a  revenue  sufiicient  for  his 
wants.  If  that  time  ever  came,  the  entire  prop- 
erty in  the  dramas,  authorship  and  all,  was  to  vest 
in  Shakespeare,  and  the  arrangement  would  be 
terminated. 

Sonnet  41. 

Those  pretty  wrongs  that  liberty  commits, 
When  I  am  sometime  absent  froin  Thy  heart, 
Thy  beauty  and  Thy  years  full  well  befits, 
For  still  temptation  follows  where  Thou  art. 
Gentle  Thou  art,  and  therefore  to  be  won, 
Beauteous  Thou  art,  therefore  to  be  assailed; 
And  when  a  woman  woos,  what  woman's  son 
Will  sourly  leave  her  till  he  have  prevailed  ? 
Ah  Me  !  but  yet  Thou  mightst  my  seat  forbear. 
And  chide  Thy  beauty  and  Thy  straying  youth, 


m  TBE  SONNETS.  75 

Who  lead  Thee  in  their  riot  even  there 
Where  Thou  art  forc'd  to  break  a  twofold  truth,  — 
Hers,  by  Thy  beauty  tempting  her  to  Thee, 
Thine,  by  Thy  beauty  being  false  to  Me. 

Full  authority  is  given  to  Shakespeare  in  this 
stanza  to  make  suoh  minor  changes  in  the  thought 
and  expression  of  the  dramas  as  may  be  deemed 
necessary.  "Those  pretty  wrougs  that  liberty 
commits"  (the  little  alterations  you  find  it  neces- 
sary to  make  for  the  purpose  of  adapting  them 
to  the  stage, — your  own  sense  of  propriety  and 
grace),  *'Thy  beauty  and  Thy  years"  (must  dic- 
tate). "Temptation  follows  where  Thou  (Truth) 
art."  Be  careful  not  to  belie  the  truth  of  the 
drama.  Thou  (Truth). can  be  easily  "won"  (pre- 
served) or  "assailed"  (destroyed).  "And  when  a 
woman  woos"  (the  dramas,  "My  Love,"  are 
represented  as  a  female  throughout  the  poem, 
aud  the  changes  for  purpose  of  representation, 
if  any,  are  made  because  "My  Love"  (the  dramas) 
wooed),  "what  woman's  son  will  sourly  leave 
her  till  he  have  prevailed?"  (if  the  change  is 
really  necessary  it  may  be  made.)  But  as  he  be- 
lieved he  had  adhered  to  the  truth,  he  disliked 
any  change,  "Thou  mightst  my  seat  forbear." 
Your  ideas  of  propriety  and  expression  are  crude 
and  unpolished,  and  you  will,  he  fears,  mar  the 
harmony  of  the  play,  and  break  a  twofold  truth: 
"Thy  beauty  [Thy  thoughts]  tempting  her  to 
Thee,"  and  disfigure  my  work,  "Thy  beauty  [My 
thoughts]  being  false  to  me." 


76  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Sonnet  42. 
That  Thou  hast  her,  it  is  not  all  My  grief, 
And  yet  it  may  be  said  I  lov'd  her  dearly; 
That  she  hath  Thee,  is  of  my  wailing  chief, 
A  loss  in  love  that  touches  Me  more  nearly. 
Loving  offenders,  thus  I  will  excuse  ye: 
Thou  dost  love  her,  because  Thou  know'st  I  love  her; 
And  for  My  sake  even  so  doth  she  abuse  Me, 
Suffering  My  friend  for  My  sake  to  approve  her. 
If  I  lose  Thee,  My  loss  is  My  Love's  gain, 
And  losing  her,  My  friend  hath  found  that  loss; 
Both  find  each  other,  and  I  lose  both  twain, 
And  both  for  My  sake  lay  on  Me  this  cross: 

But  here's  the  joy;  My  friend  and  I  are  one; 

Sweet  flattery  !  then  she  loves  but  Me  alone. 

He  reconciles  himself  to  the  change  he  has  made 
in  this  stanza.  He  is  not  greatly  disturbed  by  the 
part  which  Thou  is  represented  to  have  taken,  but 
the  transfer  to  Shakespeare  ^4s  of  his  wailing 
chief"  (is  the  great  sacrifice).  ''A  loss  in  love 
that  touches  him  more  nearly"  (it  is  parting  with 
the  most  cherished  fruits  of  his  own  great  genius, 
years  of  patient  labor  and  study,  and  all  the  great- 
ness, fame,  and  immortality  they  would  have  given 
to  his  name).  He  excuses  Thou  (Truth),  because 
his  love  for  the  dramas  (My  Love)  is  inspired  by 
the  love  he  bears  for  them  himself.  "And  for 
My  sake,  even  so  doth  she  abuse  Me"  (a  similar 
love  in  ''My  Love,"  for  the  purpose  of  supplying 
his  wants,  has  caused  her  to  leave  him,  and  "suf- 
fer My  friend"  (Shakespeare)  for  the  same  reason 
to  appropriate  her).  He  has  parted  with  his  power 
over  the  dramas  to  Shakespeare;  ''My  loss,"  but 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  77 

"My  Love''  (his  dramas),  as  she  is  now  in  hands 
where  her  great  lessons  can  receive  publicity,  is 
a  gainer  by  it.  She  has  left  him,  ''losing  her," 
(Shakespeare)  ''My  friend,"  has  found  her,  "that 
loss,"  and  thus  they  "for  his  sake"  (for  the  pur- 
pose of  furnishing  him  with  money)  abandon  his 
name.  But  the  joy  of  it  all  is,  that  he  (Bacon) 
and  Shakespeare  are  bound  to  each  other,  and 
he  flatters  himself  that  "  My  Love  "  (his  dramas) 
is  as  dear  to  him  as  ever. 

Many,  I  believe  most,  of  the  writers  who  have 
reviewed  these  Sonnets  critically,  interpret  the  last 
three,  40,  41,  and  42,  to  mean  that  Shakespeare's 
friend  had  robbed  him  of  his  mistress.  In  con- 
sideration of  his  youth,  beauty,  and  susceptibility, 
he  excused  the  offence,  forgave  him,  and  surren- 
dered his  mistress  to  his  keeping.  This  conjec- 
ture furnishes,  probably,  the  most  natural  view  of 
the  subject  to  one  who  receives  Shakespeare  as  the 
true  author  of  the  poem,  but  it  seems  to  me  that 
the  many  transpositions  and  subtile  changes  of  the 
thought,  especially  in  the  fortieth  stanza,  could 
never  to  the  most  acute  mind  have  made  such  an 
interpretation  satisfactory.  Regarding  Bacon  as 
the  author,  and  the  story  as  an  allegorical  de- 
scription of  the  course  he  pursued  to  conceal  his 
authorship  of  the  dramas,  and  to  establish  it 
firmly  in  Shakespeare,  these  stanzas  are  greatly 
relieved  of  their  seeming  intricacy  and  confu- 
sion. 


78  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Sonnet  43. 

When  most  I  wink,  then  do  Mine  eyes  best  see, 

For  all  the  day  they  view  things  unrespected; 

But  when  I  sleep,  in  dreams  they  look  on  Thee, 

And  darkly  bright  are  bright  in  dark  directed. 

Then  Thou,  whose  shadow  shadows  doth  make  bright, 

How  would  Thy  shadow's  form  form  happy  show 

To  the  clear  day  with  Thy  much  clearer  light. 

When  to  unseeing  eyes  Thy  shade  shines  so  ! 

How  would,  I  say,  Mine  eyes  be  blessed  made 

By  looking  on  Thee  in  the  living  day, 

When  in  dead  night  Thy  fair  imperfect  shade 

Through  heavy  sleep  on  sightless  eyes  doth  stay  I 
All  days  are  nights  to  see  till  I  see  Thee, 
And  nights  bright  days  when  dreams  do  show  Thee  me. 

The  partnership  with  Shakespeare  being  satis- 
factorily arranged,  he  returns  to  the  work  of  com- 
position, the  process  of  which,  though  described 
in  other  words,  is  substantially  the  same  as  that 
at  first  adopted.  (The  drowsy  hours  of  night), 
"when  most  I  wink,"  in  "sleep"  and  "in  dreams," 
were  the  moments  which  gave  birth  to  the  wonder- 
ful creations  of  his  genius, — the  employments  of 
the  day  were  unj^leasant  to  him.  In  those  "darkly 
bright "  hours,  his  thoughts  reflected  the  light 
which  directed  them  through  all  the  complexities 
of  the  subjects  he  had  chosen,  and  Thou  (Truth) 
gave  life  to  the  shadows  (characters),  by  means 
of  which  they  were  illustrated.  In  this  manner, 
fashioned  after  the  story  chosen  as  a  basis,  his 
dramas  were  wrought  into  shape.  Truth  and 
Beauty  were  at  his  command,  to  impart  to  them 
their    separate   elements,   and    he   saw   them   as 


m  THE  SONNETS.  79 

"shadows"  of  the  forms  which  in  the  ''much 
clearer  light"  of  day  they  would  assume.  The 
work  was  a  passion  with  him,  and  from  the  mo- 
ment that  it  entered  his  mind  (he  longed  for  its 
completion),  to  be  **  looking  on  Thee  in  the  living 
day/'  The  day  w^as  tedious  until  the  night  came, 
that  he  might  think  and  work,  and  the  nights 
brighter  than  the  days,  that  filled  his  thoughts 
with  his  subject. 

Sonnet  44. 
If  the  dull  substance  of  My  flesh  were  thought, 
Injurious  distance  should  not  stop  My  way; 
For  then  despite  of  space  I  would  be  brought, 
From  limits  far  remote,  where  Thou  dost  stay. 
No  matter  then  although  My  foot  did  stand 
Upon  the  farthest  earth  remov'd  from  Thee, 
For  nimble  thought  can  jump  both  sea  and  land 
As  soon  as  think  the  i)lace  where  he  would  be. 
But,  ah !  thought  kills  Me  that  I  am  not  thought, 
To  leap  large  lengths  of  miles  when  Thou  art  gone. 
But  that,  so  much  of  earth  and  water  wrought, 
I  must  attend  time's  leisure  with  My  moan, 

Receiving  nought  by  elements  so  slow 

But  heavy  tears,  badges  of  cither's  woe. 

In  this  stanza  he  likens  his  infatuation  to 
thought.  If  his  body  like  his  mind  were  thought, 
neither  "space"  nor  ''limits  far  remote '^  should 
separate  him  from  his  work.  If  he  stood  "  upon 
the  farthest  earth  remov'd  from"  it,  he  would 
jump  the  distance  of  "sea  and  land"  intervening 
"as  soon  as  think."  But  alas!  his  body  is  a  solid, 
he  cannot  overcome  its  resistance  and  leap  over 


30  BAC02i  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

the  ''earth  and  water"  that  lie  between  him  and 
the  subject  of  his  passions.  His  days  are  so  differ- 
ently occupied,  he  is  so  far  away,  that  he  must 
await  the  leisure  of  evening,  when  other  labors  are 
over,  before  he  can  return  to  the  recreation  so  full 
of  enjoyment.  It  may  be  reasonably  inferred 
from  this  allusion  to  "earth  and  water,"  that  Bacon 
had  some  daily  occupation  which  took  him  away 
from  his  lodgings  at  Gray's  Inn.  As  we  shall 
soon  see,  he  was,  if  not  then,  at  least  soon  after, 
required  to  be  in  daily  attendance  upon  the  queen. 
He  was  evidently,  through  some  cause,  unable  to 
devote  the  time  that  he  wished  to  the  composition 
of  his  dramas. 

Sonnet  45. 
The  other  two,  slight  air  and  purging  fire. 
Are  both  with  Thee,  wherever  I  abide; 
The  first  My  thought,  the  other  My  desire, 
These  present-absent  with  swift  motion  slide. 
For  when  these  quicker  elements  are  gone 
In  tender  embassy  of  love  to  Thee, 
My  life,  being  made  of  four,  with  two  alone 
Sinks  down  to  death,  oppress 'd  with  melancholy; 
Until  life's  composition  be  recur'd 
By  those  swift  messengers  retum'd  from  Thee, 
Who  even  but  now  come  back  again,  assur'd 
Of  Thy  fair  health,  recounting  it  to  me. 
This  told,  I  joy;  but  then  no  longer  glad, 
I  send  them  back  again,  and  straight  grow  sad. 

An  advance  in  the  composition  is  described  in 
this  stanza.  Two  other  elements,  air  and  fire,  are 
here  referred  to  as  being  always  with  the  drama 


Iir  THE  SONNETS.  81 

he  is  composing,  wherever  he  abides.  In  other 
words,  whether  at  Gorhambury,  Twickenham,  York 
House,  or  Gray's  Inn,  he  had  ** slight  air"  (a  small 
room  for  his  own  use),  and  "purging  fire"  (the 
means  for  warming  it).  His  thought  he  likened 
to  the  one  and  his  desire  to  the  other.  The  "earth 
and  water,"  as  he  says  in  the  previous  stanza,  are 
the  slow  elements,  the  obstructions,  but  the  air  and 
fire  are  swift;  and  w^hile  they  engage  him  in  reflect- 
ing upon  how  best  to  illustrate  Truth  and  Beauty, 
the  other  two,  "My  life  being  made  of  four," — 
Thou  (Truth),  Thy  (Thought),  You  (Beauty),  and 
I  (Bacon  as  an  individual),  he  is  as  one  dead  or 
"oppressed  with  melancholy,"  but  when  the  idea 
is  formed  and  the  illustration  seems  to  be  per- 
fect, and  "life's  composition  is  recur'd"  by  these 
reflections,  and  written  in  the  play,  he  becomes 
elated;  but  immediately  another  process  of  the 
same  kind  is  begun,  and  he  is  again  cast  down. 
The  intention  is  to  describe  the  difiiculty,  which 
not  only  he  but  every  writer  meets  with  w^hile 
tasking  his  mind  for  the  thoughts  he  wishes  to 
use  in  composition. 


Sonnet  46. 
Mine  eye  and  heart  are  at  a  mortal  war 
How  to  divide  the  conquest  of  their  sight; 
Mine  eye,  My  heart  their  picture's  sight  would  har. 
My  heart  Mine  eye  the  freedom  of  that  right. 
My  heart  doth  plead  that  Thou  in  him  dost  lie,  — 
A  closet  never  pierc'd  with  crystal  eyes,  — 
6 


82  BACON  AND  SHAKBSPEAHS 

But  the  defendant  doth  that  plea  deny, 
And  says  in  him  their  fair  appearance  lies. 
To  'cide  this  title  is  impanelled 
A  quest  of  thoughts,  all  tenants  to  the  heart, 
And  by  their  verdict  is  determined 
The  clear  eye's  moiety  and  the  dear  heart's  part; 
As  thus:  Mine  eye's  due  is  their  outward  part, 
And  My  heart's  right  their  inward  love  of  heart. 


This  stanza,  in  the  form  of  a  lawsuit  between  the 
"eye  and  heart''  (seeing  and  feeling),  describes 
how  he  was  affected  by  the  first  representation  of 
his  play  upon  the  stage.  "Mine  eye  and  heart  are 
at  a  mortal  war  how  to  divide  the  conquest  of  their 
sight"  (he  was  unable  to  determine  which  he  most 
admired,  the  scenery,  acting,  and  mechanical  ef- 
fects in  the  representation  of  the  play,  or  the 
philosophy,  truthfulness,  and  sentimentality  of  its 
composition).  "Mine  eye,  my  heart  their  picture's 
sight  would  bar"  (when  seeing  it  acted,  he  gave 
no  thought  to  the  sentiment  uttered).  "My  heart 
Mine  eye  the  freedom  of  that  right  "  (when  reflect- 
ing upon  it  for  its  great  power  of  thought  and 
expression,  he  regretted  its  appearance  in  the 
theatre).  "  My  heart  doth  plead  that  Thou  [Truth] 
in  him  doth  lie"  (Truth,  being  the  basic  element 
of  the  drama,  had  no  part  in  the  modes  of  its 
public  portrayal).  "But  the  defendant  doth  that 
plea  deny,  and  says  in  him  their  fair  appearance 
lies"  (the  beauty  of  the  drama,  as  representative  of 
character,  can  only  be  appreciated  by  seeing  it  in 
theatrical   display).      To   determine   this   mortal 


m  THE  SOJ^NETS.  g3 

difference  between  seeing  and  feeling,  a  jury  of 
thoughts  is  impanelled.  They  were  "  all  tenants  of 
the  heart,"  as  jurors  were  tenants  of  the  vicinage 
or  county.  They  were  the  thoughts  which  formed 
a  correct  judgment  of  the  respective  sensations 
the  play  as  a  composition  and  as  a  scenic  repre- 
sentation was  likely  to  excite.  Their  verdict  was 
that  the  "  eye's  due  is  their  outward  part"  (the  ex- 
hibition on  the  stage),  the  "heart's  right  their  in- 
ward love  of  heart"  (the  sentiment,  truth,  and 
philosphy  of  the  composition). 

None  but  a  lawyer  familiar  with  legal  forms  and 
the  practice  of  courts  would  probably  have  de- 
scribed so  accurately  the  process  of  a  trial  at  law. 
Here  is  first  the  cause  of  difference,  described  as 
a  "mortal  quarrel."  The  claims  of  each  party  are 
then  set  forth  in  argument,  the  jury  properly 
impanelled,  and  the  verdict  properly  rendered. 
This  and  many  passages  in  the  dramas  have  forced 
upon  biographers  and  critics  a  conjecture  that 
Shakespeare  at  some  period  of  his  early  life,  before 
going  to  London,  was  an  attorney's  clerk,  and 
while  in  that  employ,  was  enabled  by  his  remark- 
able powers  to  familiarize  himself  with  the  most 
abstruse  learning  and  practice  of  the  English 
common  law.  Admitting  the  possibility  that  he 
might  have  held  such  a  position,  any  student 
knows  how  utterly  impossible  it  would  have  been 
for  him,  without  thorough  training  and  practice, 
to  become  familiar  with   the  modus  operandi  of 


84  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

courts,  and  with  tenures,  reversions,  remainders, 
and  titles,  which  so  frequently  appear  in  his 
dramas,  all  of  which  Lord  Chancellor  Campbell,  in 
his  little  work  of  "Shakespeare  as  a  Lawyer,"  says 
are  correctly  used.  The  truth  probably  is,  that  he 
was  never  in  a  law  ofiQce  in  his  life,  except  to  order 
a  collection  suit  against  some  friend  who  had  bor- 
rowed a  few  pounds  from  him,  which  he  could  not 
pay  when  due.  There  is  jDlenty  of  evidence  of 
that  kind,  but  it  was  after  the  plays  had  been 
written. 

Sonnet  47. 
Betwixt  Mine  eye  and  heart  a  league  is  took, 
And  each  doth  good  turns  now  unto  the  other: 
When  that  Mine  eye  is  famish 'd  for  a  look, 
Or  heart  in  love  with  sighs  himself  doth  smother, 
With  My  Lovefe  picture  then  My  eye  doth  feast, 
And  to  the  painted  banquet  bids  My  heart; 
Another  time  Mine  eye  is  My  heart's  guest, 
And  in  his  thoughts  of  love  doth  share  a  part. 
So,  either  by  Thy  picture  or  My  Love, 
Thyself  away  art  present  still  with  Me; 
For  Tliou  not  farther  than  My  thoughts  canst  move, 
And  I  am  still  with  them  and  they  with  Thee; 
Or,  if  they  sleep,  Thy  picture  in  My  sight 
Awakes  My  heart  to  heart's  and  eye's  delight. 

The  decision  of  the  jury  of  thoughts  in  the  pre- 
vious stanza,  we  are  told  in  this,  has  effected  an 
arrangement  between  seeing  and  feeling,  "the  eye 
and  the  heart,"  by  which  they  accommodate  each 
other.  '  When  he  desires  to  witness  the  perform- 
ance of  his  play,  and  recalls  the  beauty  of  its  sen- 


m  THE  SONNETS.  g5 

timents,  he  goes  to  the  theatre,  and  his  "eye  doth 
feast"  (and  pleased  with  the  performance),  "to  the 
painted  banquet  bids  My  heart"  (his  sensibilities 
are  aroused).  "Another  time  Mine  eye  is  My 
heart's  guest"  (he  is  then  engaged  in  composition, 
in  which  his  reflections  are  aided  by  his  strong 
powers  of  observation).  "  So  either  by  Thy  pic- 
ture" (by  the  performance)  or  "My  Love"  (my 
drama),  "Thyself"  (Thought  in  delineation) 
"away  art  present  still  with  me"  (whether  at 
the  theatre,  or  writing  at  home.  Thought,  though 
absent  from  his  sight,  is  present  in  his  mind). 
"  For  Thou  not  farther  than  My  thoughts  can 
stray,"  Thou  (Truth)  never  absent  from  his 
"thoughts"  (his  labors),  it  follows  that  they 
are  together  when  he  is  engaged  in  writing, 
and  also  when  the  play  is  being  performed.  "  Or 
if  they  sleep"  (if  he  is  not  at  work,  and  at  the 
theatre),  "  Thy  picture "  (the  performance)  de- 
lights his  eyes  and  heart. 


Sonnet  48. 
How  careful  was  I,  when  I  took  My  way, 
Each  trifle  under  truest  bars  to  thrust, 
That  to  My  use  it  might  unused  stay 
From  hands  of  falsehood,  in  sure  wards  of  trust  1 
But  Ihou,  to  whom  My  jewels  trifles  are, 
Most  worthy  comfort,  now  My  greatest  grief, 
Thou,  best  of  dearest  and  Mine  only  care, 
Art  left  the  prey  of  every  vulgar  thief. 
Thee  have  I  not  lock'd  up  in  any  chest 
Save  where  Ihou  art  no  I,  though  I  feel  Thou  art, 


86  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Within  the  gentle  closure  of  My  breast, 
From  whence  at  pleasure  Thou  mayst  come  and  part; 
And  even  thence,  Thou  wilt  be  stolen,  I  fear, 
For  truth  proves  thievish  for  a  prize  so  dear. 

Before  leaving  his  lodgings  he  was  careful  to 
secure  all  trace  of  his  work  under  lock  and  ke}^ 
"truest  bars  of  trust,"  where  no  hand  could  mar 
or  eye  see  it  while  he  was  absent.  Meanwhile 
Thou  (Truth)  in  whom  he  took  "most  worthy 
comfort''  (most  delight),  and  who  was  also  "My 
greatest  grief"  (his  greatest  anxiety),  "Thou,  best 
of  dearest"  (best  of  all  his  friends),  and  his  "only 
care,"  was  "left  the  prey  of  every  vulgar  thief" 
(was  free,  and  exposed  to  criminal  abuse).  Thee 
(Thought)  was  not  "locked  up,"  but  the  poet  car- 
ried with  him  a  realizing  sense  of  his  presence, 
feeling  that  he  was  with  Thou  (Truth)  "within 
the  gentle  closure  of  his  breast,"  whence  he  feared, 
as  "truth  proves  thievish  for  a  prize  so  dear,"  he 
might  be  influenced  by  his  love  for  his  works  to 
betray  their  origin  himself. 


Sonnet  49. 

Against  that  time,  if  ever  that  time  come. 
When  I  shall  see  Thee  frown  on  My  defects, 
Whenas  Thy  love  hath  cast  his  utmost  sum, 
Call'd  to  that  audit  by  advis'd  respects; 
Against  that  time  when  Thou  shalt  strangely  pass, 
And  scarcely  greet  Me  with  that  sun,  Thine  eye, 
When  Love,  converted  from  the  thing  it  was, 
Shall  reasons  find  of  settled  gravity,  — 


m  THE  SONNETS.  87 

Against  that  time  do  I  ensconce  Me  here 

Within  the  knowledge  of  Mine  own  desert, 

And  this  My  hand  against  Myself  uprear, 

To  guard  the  lawful  reasons  on  Thy  part: 
To  leave  poor  Me  Thou  hast  the  strength  of  laws, 
Since  why  to  love,  I  can  allege  no  cause. 

In  this  stanza  he  tells  in  substance  the  binding 
force  of  his  obligation  to  secrecy,  as  given  to 
Shakespeare.  "  When  I  shall  see  Thee  frown  on 
my  defects"  (if  you  become  dissatisfied  with  the 
dramas),  "whenas  Thy  love  hath  cast  his  ut- 
most sum'*  (and  decline  to  share  longer  with  him 
in  the  proceeds),  "call'd  to  that  audit  by  advis'd 
respects"  (after  a  fair  trial  of  their  business 
merits);  "when  Thou  (Truth)  shall  strangely  pass 
and  scarcely  greet  Me"  (when  we  will,  moved 
by  these  considerations,  abandon  the  work  of 
composition),  "when  Love,  converted  from  the 
thing  it  was,  shall  reasons  find  of  settled  gravity" 
(when  all  intercourse  between  them  is  terminated). 

**  Against  that  time  do  I  ensconce  Me  here 
Within  the  knowledge  of  Mine  own  desert. 
And  this  My  hand  against  Myself  uprear, 
To  guard  the  lawful  reasons  on  Thy  part." 

(He  will,  proudly  conscious  of  the  works  and 
of  the  injustice  awarded  them,  still  protect  Shake- 
speare in  all  lawful  ways  from  exposure.)  Thou 
(Truth)  will  have  the  "strength  of  laws"  to  pro- 
tect him,  as  there  will  then  be  "no  cause"  for  him 
to  remain, 


88  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

The  understanding  between  Bacon  and  Shake- 
speare was  doubtless  experimental  at  first.  Both 
probably  feared  for  the  success  of  the  drama  in 
theatrical  representation.  In  case  of  failure,  as 
Shakespeare  was  to  be  the  avowed  author;  it  was 
the  duty  of  Bacon  to  resist  any  suspicion  of  the 
real  authorship.  It  seems  from  this  stanza  that 
Bacon  gave  a  broader  meaning  to  their  agreement, 
and  determined  in  any  event,  during  his  own  life, 
to  deny  all  knowledge  of  the  dramas. 


Sonnet  50. 
How  heavy  do  I  journey  on  the  way, 
When  what  I  seek,  My  weary  travel's  end. 
Doth  teach  that  ease  and  that  repose  to  say, 
**  Thus  far  the  miles  are  measur'd  from  Thy  Friend  1 " 
The  beast  that  bears  Me,  tired  with  My  woe, 
Plods  dully  on,  to  bear  that  weight  in  Me, 
As  if  by  some  instinct  the  wretch  did  know 
His  rider  lov'd  not  speed,  being  made  from  Thee: 
The  bloody  spur  cannot  provoke  him  on 
That  sometimes  anger  thrusts  into  his  hide; 
Which  heavily  he  answers  with  a  groan, 
More  sharp  to  Me  than  spurring  to  his  side; 

For  that  same  groan  doth  put  this  in  My  mind,  — 
My  grief  lies  onward  and  My  joy  behind. 

In  this  stanza,  as  well  as  in  one  or  more  preced- 
ing it,  an  apparent  desire  is  manifested  by  both 
Bacon  and  Shakespeare,  that  the  drama  he  is 
engaged  in  writing  snould  be  completed  with  all 
possible  despatch.  It  is  probably  for  this  reason 
that  in  a  former  stanza  he  regrets  that  he  cannot 


m  THE  SONNETS.  89 

employ  the  day  as  well  as  the  night  upon  it.  The 
daily  demand  upon  his  time  is  peremptory,  and 
the  distance  from  his  lodgings  so  far  as  to  require 
a  horse  for  conveyance.  This  daily  journey  is 
''heavy*'  (tedious  and  irritating)  to  him,  when  he 
thinks  of  ''what  I  seek.  My  weary  travel's  end" 
(the  work  still  to  be  done,  before  the  drama  is 
completed).  His  daily  occupation  is  one  of  "ease 
and  repose,"  from  which  it  may  be  inferred  that  he 
was  in  daily  attendance  upon  the  queen,  with  little 
to  do,  and  on  the  lookout  for  office.  He  is  con- 
stantly worried  about  the  play  while  absent,  and 
measures  the  time  by  the  miles  of  travel  he  could 
perform  while  it  continues.  "Thus  far  the  miles 
are  measured  from  Thy  Friend"  (he  is  deprived  of 
s^  much  time  that  he  might  give  to  Shakespeare, 
or  in  other  words,  to  the  drama).  His  horse,  as  it 
seems  to  him,  travels  slowly,  as  if  he  knew  by  in- 
stinct of  his  master's  wish  to  remain.  He  answers 
the  spur  with  a  groan,  which  reminds  the  rider 
that  he  has  a  day  of  dulness  and  inaction.  "My 
grief  lies  onward  "  (which  could  be  so  pleasantly 
and  profitably  occupied  if  he  could  remain  at 
home),  "  and  my  joy  behind." 


Son:net  51. 

Thus  can  My  Love  excuse  the  slow  offence 

Of  My  dull  bearer  when  from  Thee  I  speed: 

From  where  Thou  art  why  should  I  haste  me  thence  ? 

Till  I  return,  of  posting  is  no  need. 


90  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

O,  what  excuse  will  My  poor  beast  then  find, 
When  swift  extremity  can  seem  but  slow  ? 
Then  should  I  spur,  though  mounted  on  the  wind; 
In  winged  speed  no  motion  shall  I  know: 
Then  can  no  horse  with  My  desire  keep  pace; 
Therefore  desire,  of  perfect'st  love  being  made, 
Shall  neigh  —  no  dull  flesh  —  in  his  fiery  race; 
But  Love,  for  Love,  thus  shall  excuse  My  jade: 
Since  from  Thee  going  he  went  wilful-slow, 
Towards  Thee  1 11  run,  and  give  him  leave  to  go. 

The  return  from  his  day's  absence  is  described 
in  this  stanza.  He  apologizes  to  "My  Love''  (the 
drama)  for  the  laziness  of  his  horse  when  going 
away  from  her  and  Thou.  "  For  where  Thou  art 
why  should  I  haste  me  thence?"  as  if  he  had  said 
it  would  be  strange  indeed  if  he  left  *'Thou"  and 
''My  Love,"  his  two  dearest  friends,  except  he  was 
compelled.  "Till  I  return,  of  posting  is  no  neefl" 
(until  the  day's  occupation  was  over,  he  need  be 
in  no  hurry).  But  when  that  hour  arrives,  he 
will  have  no  excuse  to  offer  for  a  tardy  return. 
"When  swift  extremity  can  seem  but  slow"  (when 
the  extremest  speed  will  not  equal  that  of  his 
eagerness  to  complete  the  journey).  If  he  was 
mounted  on  the  wind  he  would  spur  it  into 
"winged  speed,"  and  experience  "no  motion"  in 
the  transit  if  he  obeyed  his  desire.  No  horse 
could  pace  with  his  desire.  But  as  his  desire  is 
made  of  perfect  love,  and  not  "dull  flesh,"  it  shall 
answer  to  "  My  Love,"  as  a  horse  would  reply  with 
a  "neigh"  to  his  mate.  This  will  be  sufficient 
explanation  for  his  dulness  when  away,  and  the 
speed  of  hi^  return. 


I2r  THE  SONNETS,  91 

Sonnet  52. 
So  am  I  as  the  rich,  whose  blessed  key 
Can  bring  him  to  his  sweet  up-locked  treasure, 
The  which  he  will  not  every  hour  survey, 
For  blunting  the  fine  point  of  seldom  pleasure. 
Therefore  are  feasts  so  solemn  and  so  rare, 
Since,  seldom  coming,  in  the  long  year  set. 
Like  stones  of  worth  they  thinly  placed  are. 
Or  captain  jewels  in  the  carcanet. 
So  is  the  time  that  keeps  You  as  My  chest. 
Or  as  the  wardrobe  which  the  robe  doth  hide, 
To  make  some  special  instant  special  blest. 
By  new  unfolding  his  imprison'd  pride. 

Blessed  are  You,  whose  worthiness  gives  scope. 
Being  had,  to  triumph,  being  lack'd,  to  hope. 

He  explains  in  this  stanza  the  peculiar  pleasure 
he  feels  on  his  return  to  his  work.  As  a  rich 
man  derives  more  happiness  from  an  occasional 
survey  of  the  wealth,  which  he  keeps  secured  by 
lock  and  key,  so  he  is  more  sensible  to  the  pleas- 
ure derived  from  working  on  his  drama  at  inter- 
vals, than  he  would  be  if  constantly  employed. 
Feasts  are  more  highly  appreciated  than  they 
would  be  if  of  more  frequent  occurrence.  As  the 
attractiveness  of  precious  jewels  is  increased  when 
they  are  separate  in  setting,  so  the  time  which 
conceals  You  (Beauty)  adds  to  your  fascinations 
as  often  as  you  are  exposed  to  view.  As  the  ward- 
robe which  contains  the  robe  unfolded  on  great 
occasions,  so  You  (Beauty)  unfold  new  delights 
to  every  moment  he  devotes  to  your  service.  All 
succeed  who  have  you,  and  all  hope  who  have  you 
not. 


92  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Sonnet  53. 
What  is  Your  substance,  whereof  are  You  made. 
That  millions  of  strange  shadows  on  You  tend  ? 
Since  every  one  hath,  every  one,  one  shade. 
And  You,  but  one,  can  every  shadow  lend. 
Describe  Adonis,  and  the  counterfeit 
Is  poorly  imitated  after  You; 
On  Helen's  cheek  all  art  of  beauty  set, 
And  You  in  Grecian  tires  are  painted  new: 
Speak  of  the  spring  and  foison  of  the  year, 
The  one  doth  shadow  of  Your  beauty  show, 
The  other  as  Your  bounty  doth  appear; 
And  You  in  every  blessed  shape  we  know. 
In  all  external  grace  You  have  some  part, 
But  You  like  none,  none  You,  for  constant  heart. 

The  power  of  You  (Beauty)  is  described  in  this 
stanza.  In  view  of  the  countless  forms  which 
Beauty  assumes,  he  is  eager  to  learn  the  elements 
of  which  he  is  tjomposed.  "What  is  Your  sub- 
stance, whereof  are  You  made?"  Every  person 
has  but  one  shadow,  but  you,  who  are  but  one, 
can  "lend"  (create)  millions.  All  attempts  to 
imitate  your  description  of  Adonis  are  failures. 
The  time  of  writing  the  poem  of  "Venus  and 
Adonis  "  could  not  be  better  suited  to  that  par- 
ticular period  he  all  along  has  described  as  being 
employed  upon  the  dramas.  It  was  among  the 
first  of  his  efforts.  "  The  True  Tragedy,"  "  History 
of  the  Contention,^'  "  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona," 
and  "  Taming  the  Shrew  "  had  appeared  before  it 
was  published,  but  Shakespeare  first  appeared  as 
the  author  of  "  Venus  and  Adonis."  The  follow- 
ing is  the  description  of  Adonis  referred  to: — 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  93 

"Thrice  fairer  than  myself,"  thus  she  began, 
"The  field's  chief  flower,  sweet  above  compare, 
Stain  to  all  nymphs,  more  lovely  than  a  man, 
More  white  and  red  than  doves  and  roses  are, 
Nature  that  made  thee,  with  herself  at  strife, 
Saith  that  the  world  hath  ending  with  thy  life. " 

Venxis  and  Adonis,  Stanza  2. 

''On  Helen's  cheek,  all  art  of  beauty  set."  This 
line  has  reference  to  the  beauty  of  Helen  as  de- 
picted in  various  passages  in  the  play  of  "Troilus 
and  Cressida,"  which,  though  not  published  until 
1609,  was  probably  fresh  in  his  memory  at  the 
time  this  stanza  was  prepared.  ''And  you  in 
Grecian  tires  are  painted  new/'  probably  has  al- 
lusion to  other  characters  in  the  same  play,  and 
to  the  plays  "Timon  of  Athens"  and  "A  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream."  Spring  reflects  Beauty 
in  its  verdure  and  freshness,  and  "the  foison  of 
the  year "  (autumn)  in  its  abundance.  There  is 
nothing  attractive,  and  no  "external  grace"  of 
which  Beauty  is  not  a  part.  But  it  is  evanescent 
of  itself.  (It  is  only  when  it  lends  itself  to  some- 
thing that  it  is  of  any  use.  It  is  inconstant,  fleet- 
ing, impalpable.)  "You  like  none,  none  You,  for 
constant  heart." 

Sonnet  54. 
O,  how  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous  seem 
By  that  sweet  ornament  which  truth  doth  give! 
The  rose  looks  fair,  but  fairer  we  it  deem 
For  that  sweet  odour  which  doth  in  it  live. 
Tlie  canker-blooms  have  fulj  as  deep  a  dye, 
As  the  perfumed  tincture  of  the  roses, 


94  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Hang  on  such  thorns,  and  play  as  wantonly, 
When  summer's  breath  their  masked  buds  discloses. 
But,  for  their  virtue  only  is  their  show, 
They  live  unwoo'd,  and  unrespected  fade. 
Die  to  themselves.     Sweet  roses  do  not  so; 
Of  their  sweet  deaths  are  sweetest  odours  made: 
And  so  of  You,  beauteous  and  lovely  youth. 
When  that  shall  vade,  my  verse  distills  Your  truth. 

The  adornment  which  Truth  gives  to  Beauty  is 
described  in  this  stanza.  Fair  as  the  rose  is  in 
appearance,  it  is  equally  prized  for  its  perfume. 
The  canker  is  as  rich  in  hue  and  as  graceful  in 
appearance  as  the  rose,  but  wanting  in  perfume, 
it  fades  and  dies  neglected  and  unnoticed.  But 
the  sweetest  odors  are  made  by  the  "death"  (the 
faded  leaves)  of  the  rose.  So  of  Beauty,  which 
alone  dies  to  itself,  but  when  used  in  the  illustra- 
tion of  Truth,  as  it  is  in  ''my  verse"  (this  poem), 
the  truth  it  adorns,  like  the  perfume  of  the  rose, 
will  give  it  permanent  existence. 


Sonnet  55. 

Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments 

Of  princes,  shall  outlive  this  powerful  rhyme; 

But  You  shall  shine  more  bright  in  these  contents 

Than  unswept  stone,  besmear'd  with  sluttish  time. 

Wlien  wasteful  war  sliall  statues  overturn, 

And  broils  root  out  the  work  of  masonry, 

Nor  Mars  his  sword  nor  war's  quick  fire  shall  bum 

The  living  record  of  Your  memory. 

'Gainst  death  and  all-oblivious  enmity 

Shall  You  pace  forth;  Your  praise  shall  still  find  room 


m  THE  SON-NETS.  9S 

Even  in  the  eyes  of  all  posterity 
That  wear  this  world  out  to  the  ending  doom. 
So,  till  the  judgment  that  Yourself  arise. 
You  live  in  this,  and  dwell  in  lovers'  eyes. 

In  this  stanza  the  duration  of  Beauty's  life,  har- 
moniously united  with  Truth  in  this  poem,  is  por-*" 
trayed.  It  shall  outlive  all  material  creation, — 
the  ''marhle^'  and  "gilded  monuments  of  princes," 
and  the  fabrics  of  stone  which  time  has  covered 
with  mosses  and  discolorations.  The  ravage  and 
devastation  of  war,  which  destroys  statues,  razes 
the  most  solid  structures,  and  burns  towns,  shall 
not  destroy  "the  living  record  of  Your  memory" 
(this  poem,  in  which  is  recorded  the  history  of  the 
dramas).  You  shall  survive  all  who  live;  even 
oblivion  has  no  power  to  hide  you.  "All  poster- 
ity" shall  see  and  delight  in  you  to  "the  ending 
doom"  (forever).  You  shall  live  in  "this"  poem 
(this  poem  in  its  history  will  give  you  life  in  the 
dramas),  where  you  will  "dwell  in  lovers'  eyes" 
(delighting  all  who  see  you  displayed  in  them). 


Sonnet  56. 

Sweet  love,  renew  Thy  force;  be  it  not  said 

Thy  edge  should  blunter  be  than  appetite, 

Which  but  to-day  by  feeding  is  allay'd, 

To-morrow  sharpen 'd  in  his  former  might: 

So,  love,  be  Thou;  although  to-day  Thou  fill 

Thy  hungry  eyes,  even  till  they  wink  with  fulness, 

To-morrow  see  again,  and  do  not  kill 

The  spirit  of  love  with  a  perpetual  dulness. 


^        OF  THK 


pKIVBESITY] 


96  BACOK  AKD  SHAKESPEARE 

Let  this  sad  interim  like  the  ocean  be 
Wliich  parts  the  shore,  where  two  contracted  new 
Come  daily  to  the  banks,  that,  when  they  see 
Return  of  love,  more  blest  may  be  the  view; 
Else  call  it  winter,  which  being  full  of  care 
Makes  summer's  welcome  thrice  more  wish'd,  more  rard. 

Bacon  must  have  been*  greatly  enamored  with 
his  writings  to  promise  for  them,  even  at  this 
early  stage,  when  but  four  of  the  dramas  had 
been  written,  such  unending  life.  In  this  stanza 
the  meaning  insinuates  that  a  suspension  of  work 
upon  the  dramas  is  likely  to  occur,  but  that  after  a 
time  it  will  be  resumed.  Meantime  he  is  anxious 
that  his  love  for  the  work  should  suffer  no  abate- 
ment. Like  the  appetite,  satiated  "to-day"  (with 
present  labor)  with  like  or  greater  eagerness,  may 
his  hunger  for  resuming  work  return  to-morrow, 
so  that  "the  spirit  of  love"  (the  power  of  delinea- 
tion) may  not  forsake  him.  Like  two  lovers,  who, 
separated  by  the  ocean,  their  vows  just  plighted,  go 
daily  to  the  shores  by  agreement  to  meditate  upon 
their  affection  for  each  other,  so  let  the  "sad  in- 
terim" (the  period  of  this  suspension)  keep  the 
subject  of  future  composition  constantly  in  mind, 
that  on  "return  of  love,  more  blest  may  be  the 
view"  (he  may  exceed  his  former  efforts).  Or  let 
the  intermission  be  like  winter  with  its  coldness, 
which  makes  summer's  warmth  and  beauty  wel- 
come and  delightful.  It  will'  be  seen  hereafter 
that  winter  and  summer  are  used  to  symbolize  the 
very  conditions  which  are  here  suggested  by  them. 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  97 

Sonnet  57. 
Being  your  slave,  what  should  I  do  but  tend 
Upon  the  hours  and  times  of  Your  desire  ? 
I  have  no  precious  time  at  all  to  spend, 
Nor  services  to  do,  till  You  require. 
Nor  dare  I  chide  the  world-witliout-end  hour 
Whilst  I,  My  sovereign,  watch  the  clock  for  Yon, 
Nor  think  the  bitterness  of  absence  sour 
When  You  have  bid  Your  servant  once  adieu; 
Nor  dare  I  question  with  My  jealous  thought 
Where  You  may  be,  or  Your  affairs  suppose. 
But,  like  a  sad  slave,  stay  and  think  of  nought 
Save,  where  You  are,  how  happy  You  make  those. 
So  true  a  fool  is  love  that  in  Your  will, 
Though  You  do  anything,  he  thinks  no  ili 

This  stanza  and  the  following  one  are  addressed 
to  Queen  Elizabeth.  The  following  extract  is 
taken  from  the  first  volume  of  the  Biographia 
Brittanica,  page  373:  — 

"After  discharging  the  office  of  reader  at  Gray's 
Inn,  which  he  [Bacon]  did,  in  1588,  when  in  the 
twenty-sixth  year  of  his  age,  he  was  become  so 
considerable,  that  the  queen,  who  never  over- 
valued any  man's  abilities,  thought  fit  to  call  him 
to  her  service  in  a  way  which  did  him  very  great 
honor,  by  appointing  him  her  counsel  learned  in 
the  law  extraordinary;  by  which,  though  she  con- 
tributed abundantly  to  his  reputation,  yet  she 
added  but  very  little  to  his  fortune;  and  indeed,  in 
this  respect  he  was  never  very  much  indebted  to 
her  majesty,  how  much  soever  he  might  be  in  all 
others." 

This  appointment,  which  obliged  him  to  be  in 
daily  attendance  upon  her  majesty,  was  probably 

7 


98  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

the  cause  of  his  absence  from  his  quarters  at 
Gray's  Inn,  during  the  business  hours  of  every 
day,  while  the  office  continued.  It  made  him,  as 
he  says  in  the  stanza,  the  *' slave"  of  the  queen. 
In  the  discharge  of  its  duties  he  was  bound  to 
"tend  upon  the  hoiirs  and  times  of  her  desire" 
(to  obey  her  pleasure,  however  exacting).  This 
gave  him  "  no  precious  time  at  all  to  spend  "  (no 
time  that  he  could  devote  to  the  composition  of 
his  dramas),  "nor  services  to  do  till  you  require" 
(nor  any  other  service  except  under  her  special 
direction).  As  a  consequence,  his  time  was  for 
the  most  part  unoccupied,  but  necessarily  spent  in 
waiting  the  queen's  orders.  He  meantime  dared 
not  "  chide  the  world-without-enS  hour,  whilst  I, 
my  sovereign,  watch  the  clock  for  you"  (how 
heavy  soever  the  hours  might  pass  with  him,  his 
fear  of  the  queen's  anger  prevented  him  from 
complaining).  He  did  not  even  "think  the  bit- 
terness of  absence  sour,  when  you  have  bid  your 
servant  once  adieu"  (he  could  not  complain, 
when  she  left  him  to  await  her  return,  of  her  ab- 
sence, so  unprofitably  spent  by  him).  "  Nor  dare 
I  question  with  my  jealous  thought  where  you 
may  be,  or  your  affairs  suppose "  (he  dared  not 
even  to  inquire  into  the  occasion  of  her  absence). 
"  But,  like  a  sad  slave,  stay  and  think  of  nought 
save,  where  you  are,  how  happy  you  make  those" 
(but  he  must  await  her  return  in  a  state  of  com- 
plete passivity,  except  as  occasion  might  offer  for 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  99 

some  delicate  flattery,  or  pleasant  allusion  to  her 
own  powers  of  fascination  w^hile  absent).  This 
service  made  his  loyalty  ridiculous,  and  obliged 
him  to  praise  in  the  same  strain  both  the  vices 
and  virtues  of  the  queen. 

No  historian  has  ever  drawn  with  truer  pen 
the  predominant  characteristics  of  Elizabeth  than 
Bacon  in  this  stanza.  Proud,  capricious,  despotic, 
high-tempered,  selfish,  suspicious,  and  overbear- 
ing, she  exacted  the  entire  submission  of  every  one 
she  honored,  and  filled  the  very  atmosphere  of  her 
court  with  fear.  Bacon's  life  at  court  at  this  time 
was  monotonous,  unoccupied,  and  insecure,  but 
the  liope  of  preferment  —  an  ambition  to  shine  as 
a  great  statesman  and  great  lawyer — rendered  it 
endurable.  For  this  hope,  ever  uppermost  in  his 
thoughts,  he  submitted  to  all  the  "whips  and 
spurs  "  of  fortune,  while  inwardly  worshipping  all 
that  was  true  and  beautiful  in  nature  and  char- 
acter. He  was  truly  great  as  a  philosopher  and 
poet,  but  cringing  and  submissive  as  a  courtier 
and  statesman.  His  wonderful  abilities  made  his 
faults  the  more  conspicuous.  Similar  failings  in 
some  of  his  famous  contemporaries  have  escaped 
the  criticism  whioh  has  so  sharply  assailed  his 
memory.  It  had  been  fortunate  for  him  and  the 
world  if  his  life  had  been  devoted  to  those  pur- 
suits only  for  which,  as  he  says  when  speaking  of 
his  public  career,  ^'  it  was  better  fitted." 


100  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Sonnet  58. 
That  god  forbid  that  made  Me  first  Your  slave, 
I  should  in  thought  control  Your  times  of  pleasure, 
Or  at  Your  hand  the  account  of  hours  to  crave, 
Being  Your  vassal,  bound  to  stay  Your  leisure ! 
O,  let  Me  suffer,  being  at  Your  beck, 
The  imprison'd  absence  of  Your  liberty; 
And  patience,  tame  to  sufferance,  bide  each  check. 
Without  accusing  You  of  injury. 
Be  where  You  list,  Your  charter  is  so  strong 
That  You  Yourself  may  privilege  Your  time 
To  what  You  will;  to  You  it  doth  belong 
Yourself  to  pardon  of  self-doing  crime. 

I  am  to  wait,  though  waiting  so  be  hell; 

Not  blame  Your  pleasure,  be  it  ill  or  well. 

In  this  stanza  he  accepts  submissively  all  the 
humiliation  and  abasement  to  which  he  is  sub- 
jected as  an  attendant  at  court.  "  That  god  for- 
bid that  made  me  first  your  slave  ''  (that  ambition 
that  causes  him  to  look  to  the  queen  for  prefer- 
ment), that  he  should  fail  to  accommodate  his 
time  to  suit  hers.  He  is  her  '^vassal,"  and  bound 
to  stay  at  court  until  she  can  see  him,  though  it 
is  like  a  prison  to  him.  If  he  feels  impatient,  he 
still  must  submit  to  suffer, —  bear  with  all  delays, 
from  w^hatever  cause,  without  complaint  against 
her.  She  must  occupy  her  time  as  she  pleases,  as 
it  is  entirely  under. her  control,  —  is  her  right, — 
and  she  need  not  respect  his  wishes  at  all,  as  she 
has  power  to  pardon  herself  for  any  wrong  she 
may  do.  And  though  the  waiting,  which  absents 
him  from  work  upon  his  dramas,  *'be  hell''  to 
him,  he  can  find  no  fault  with  his  qvieen,  whether 


/xV  THE  SONNETS.  \^l 

he  is  delayed  with  or  without  cause.  In  both 
these  stanzas  the  key  of  "  You,"  which  imperson- 
ates Beauty,  is  necessarily  used  in  substitution  for 
the  queen,  for  the  reason,  probably,  that  it  was 
indispensable.  By  reading  the  stanzas  as  if  ap- 
plied to  Beauty,  the  key  is  perfect,  and  I  was  dis- 
posed to  confine  it  to  that  meaning;  but  its  perfect 
adaptability  to  the  appointment  he  received,  and 
the  sequent  meaning  it  gives  to  the  probable  sus- 
pension in  his  writing,  foreshadowed  in  the  fifty- 
sixth  stanza,  as  well  as  the  absence  daily  imposed 
on  him,  which  he  so  laments,  has  confirmed  my 
belief  that  he  intended  to  address  the  queen,  and 
also  preserve  the  key,  by  making  the  stanza  equally 
applicable  to  Beauty. 

Sonnet  69. 
If  there  be  nothing  new,  but  that  which  is 
Hath  bpen  liefore,  how  are  our  brains  beguil'd, 
Which,  laboring  for  invention,  bear  amiss 
The  second  burthen  of  a  former  child  ! 
O,  that  record  could,  with  a  backward  look, 
Even  of  five  hundred  courses  of  the  sun, 
Show  Me  Your  image  in  some  antique  book, 
Since  mind  at  first  in  character  was  done  ! 
That  I  might  see  what  the  old  world  could  say 
To  this  composed  wonder  of  your  frame; 
Whether  we  're  mended,  or  whether  better  they, 
Or  whether  revolution  be  the  same. 
O,  sure  I  am,  the  wits  of  former  days 
To  subjects  worse  have  given  admiring  praise. 

Comparison  between  the  stories  upon  which  his 
plays  are  founded   and  the   plays  themselves   is 


102  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

made  in  this  stanza.  If  these  plays  are  not  new 
in  their  new  dress,  he  has  spent  his  time  unprofit- 
ably  in  "  laboring  for  invention "  to  make  them 
so.  Of  their  comparative  merits,  he  would  like  to 
have  the  opinion  of  the  ''  old  world  "  (the  people 
who  lived  five  hundred  years  before  his  time), 
when  the  stories  upon  which  his  dramas  were 
founded  were  written;  in  the  days  of  Cinthio,  Saxo 
Grammaticus,  and  other  writers,  when  "  mind  at 
first  in  character  was  done''  (when  the  first  mod- 
ern attempts  at  story-telling  were  made),  and 
hear  what  their  opinion  would  be  "  of  this  com- 
posed wonder  of  your  frame  "  (of  the  reproduction 
he  has  made  of  their  works),  whether  they  are 
improved  or  not,  or  "whether  revolution  be  the 
same  "  (whether  the  world  has  remained  station- 
ary, without  advancement).  He  ventures  the  as- 
sertion that  the  "wits"  (the  critics,  authors,  and 
readers)  of  those  times  had  been  pleased  and  satis- 
fied with  works  less  deserving  than  those  he  has 
written. 

Sonnet  60. 
Like  as  the  waves  make  towards  the  pebbled  shore, 
So  do  our  minutes  hasten  to  their  end; 
Each  changing  place  with  that  which  goes  before. 
In  sequent  toil  all  forwards  do  cpntend. 
Nativity,  once  in  the  main  of  light, 
Crawls  to  maturity,  wherewith  being  crown'd, 
Crooked  eclipses  'gainst  his  glory  fight. 
And  Time  that  gave  doth  now  his  gift  confound. 
Time  doth  transfix  the  flourish  set  on  youth 
And  delves  the  parallels  in  Beauty's  brow. 


/iV  THE  SONNETS.  103 

Feeds  on  the  rarities  of  nature's  truth, 
And  nothing  stands  but  for  his  scythe  to  mow; 
And  yet  to  times  in  hope  my  verse  shall  stand, 
Praising  Thy  worth,  despite  his  cruel  hand. 

This  stanza  is  a  reflex  of  the  advancement  of 
growth  and  life  from  infancy  to  maturity.  The 
minutes  are  compared  to  the  waves  in  their  ap- 
proach to  the  beach,  each  changing  place  with  the 
one  before  it,  and  all  eager  in  its  march  to  reach 
the  limit  of  its  bounds.  "Nativity,  once  in  the 
main  of  light"  (the  infant  just  born),  "crawls  to 
maturity"  (feels  the  time  as  long  until  he  reaches 
manhood),  "wherewith  being  crown'd,  crooked 
eclipses  'gainst  his  glory  fight"  (when  attained,  he 
meets  with  worldly  troubles  which  darken  the 
bright  path  he  had  marked  for  himself  in  early 
years).  "And  Time  that  gave  doth  now  his  gift 
confound  "  (if  he  has  been  favored  by  education, 
or  wealth,  the  world  is  full  of  obstacles  to  the  suc- 
cess in  life  he  had  anticipated).  "Time  doth 
transfix  the  flourish  set  on  youth"  (the  promises 
and  flatteries  which  accompanied  his  youth,  and 
taught  him  to  believe  he  was  destined  for  great 
achievements,  find  no  fruition  among  the  disap- 
pointments and  cares  that  assail  him  in  his  strug- 
gle with  the  world).  "And  delves  the  parallels  in 
Beauty's  brow"  (wrinkles  him  with  sorrow,  regret, 
and  anguish).  "Feeds  on  the  vanities  of  nature's 
truth  "  (it  is  wasted  in  the  follies  and  vices  of  the 
world).     "And  nothing  stands  but  for  his  scythe 


104  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

to  mow"  (hopes  are  blasted,  life  is  overcast,  and 
no  prospect  of  worldly  attainment  or  promotion 
before  him). 

This  I  conceive  to  have  been  written  as  express- 
ive of  Bacon's  own  disappointment  in  early  life. 
No  young  man  of  that  age  was  favored  with  better 
opportunities,  and  none  ever  blessed  with  greater 
abilities  and  aptitudes  of  thought  and  desire  to 
profit  by  them.  The  death  of  his  father,  want  of 
fortune,  and  force  of  circumstances,  which  de- 
prived him  of  congenial  studies  and  occupations, 
clouded  his  early  manhood,  made  him  a  depend- 
ent, and  changed  the  whole  course  of  his  life.  It 
is  quite  probable,  however,  but  for  these  changes, 
the  world  never  would  have  been  blessed  with  his 
immortal  dramas. 

This  stanza  is  also  suggestive  of  the  thoughts 
contained  in  the  celebrated  speech  of  Jaques  in 
''As  You  Like  It,"  commencing  "All  the  world's 
a  stage,"  etc.,  and  may  have  been  written  in  allu- 
sion to  that  play. 

Sonnet  61. 
Is  it  Thy  will  Thy  image  should  keep  open 
My  heavy  eyelids  to  the  weary  night  ? 
Dost  Thou  desire  My  slumbers  should  be  broken. 
While  shadows  like  to  Thee  do  mock  My  sight  ? 
Is  it  Thy  spirit  that  Thou  send'st  from  Thee 
So  far  froifi  home  into  My  deeds  to  pry, 
To  find  out  shames  and  idle  hours  in  Me, 
The  scope  and  tenor  of  Thy  jealousy? 
O,  no!  Thy  Love,  though  much,  is  not  so  great: 
It  is  My  Love  that  keeps  Mine  eye  awake; 


m  THE  SONNETS.  105 

Mine  own  true  Love  that  doth  My  rest  defeat, 

To  play  the  watchman  ever  for  Thy  sake: 

For  Thee  watch  I,  whilst  Thou  dost  wake  elsewhere, 
From  Me  far  off,  with  others  all  too  near. 


He  tells  in  this  stanza  that  Shakespeare,  though 
present  to  his  thoughts,  is  not  the  principal  mo- 
tive which  impels  him  to  work  upon  his  dramas. 
"Is  it  Thy  will  Thy  image  should  keep  open  My 
heavy  eyelids  to  the  weary  night?"  (am  I  influ- 
enced by  the  thought  of  Will  Shakespeare  in  the 
drama  I  am  writing?)  "Dost  Thou  [Truth]  desire 
my  slumbers  should  be  broken,  while  shadows 
like  to  Thee  [Shakespeare]  do  mock  my  sight?'* 
(shall  I  stop  writing,  or  lose  sleep  on  your  ac- 
count?) "Is  it  Thy  [Shakespeare's]  spirit  that 
Thou  [Truth]  send'st  from  Thee  [Thought]  so  far 
from  home  into  My  deeds  to  pry?"  (does  my  night 
work  on  the  drama  require  your  presence  for  any 
purpose?)  "  To  find  out  shame  and  idle  hours  in 
Me,  the  scope  and  tenor  of  Thy  jealousy?"  (can 
you  tell  whether  my  writings  are  ill  or  well,  or 
whether  they  should  be  completed  sooner  or  later  ?) 
"0,  no!  Thy  Love,  though  much,  is  not  so  great " 
(your  interest,  though  valuable,  is  of  another  kind, 
and  not  equal  to  any  of  these  services).  "It  is 
My  Love  [my  drama]  that  keeps  Mine  eye  awake, 
Mine  own  true  Love  that  doth  My  rest  defeat "  (it 
is  my  drama,  which  is  "My  own  true  Love,"  that 
influences  me  to  work,  and  also  to  be  watchful  of 
you,  Shakespeare).     I  watch  for  you  when  "Thou 


106  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

dost  wake  elsewhere ''  (when  Truth  is  elsewhere, 
and  I  am  not  busy  with  my  writing).  *'  From  Me 
far  off,  with  others  all  too  near  "  (and  liable  to 
be  employed  by  others  in  their  writings).  This 
stanza  virtually  denies  to  Shakespeare  any  work 
in  the  composition  of  the  dramas. 


Sonnet  62. 
Sin  of  self-love  possesseth  all  Mine  eye 
And  all  My  soul  and  all  My  every  part; 
And  for  this  sin  there  is  no  remedy, 
It  is  so  grounded  inward  in  My  heart. 
Methinks  no  face  so  gracious  is  as  Mine, 
No  shape  so  true,  no  truth  of  such  account; 
And  for  Myself  Mine  own  worth  do  define, 
As  I  all  other  in  all  worths  surmount. 
But  when  My  glass  shows  Me  Myself  indeed, 
Bated  and  chopp'd  with  tann'd  antiquity, 
Mine  own  self-love  quite  contrary  I  read; 
Self  so  self -loving  were  iniquity, 

T  is  Tliee,  Myself,  that  for  Myself  I  praise, 
Painting  My  age  with  beauty  of  Thy  days. 

He  apologizes  in  this  stanza  for  the  self-love  he 
has  exhibited  in  the  previous  stanza  by  claiming 
for  himself  the  merit  of  composing  the  dramas. 
Self-love  possesses  him  "in  all  my  every  part.'' 
Its  control  of  him  is  so  entire  that  there  is  ''no 
remedy"  for  it.  Under  its  influence  he  thinks 
no  one  handsomer  than  he  is,  so  well  shaped,  so 
perfect  in  character.  In  his  own  estimation  he 
excels  "all  others."  But  when  he  sees  himself  in 
his  reflections  ''bated  and   chopp'd  with  tann'd 


m  THE  SONNETS.  107 

antiquity  "  (worn  and  thin  from  his  studies  and 
closet  exercises,  and  a  life  of  seclusion),  he  is  un- 
deceived and  reminded  of  the  folly  of  such  self- 
love.  It  is  all  for  "Thee,  Myself'  (my  thoughts 
in  delineation),  that  "for  Myself  I  praise,  paint- 
ing My  age  with  beauty  of  Thy  days"  (bestowing 
his  thoughts  upon  the  times  in  which  he  happens 
to  live). 

Sonnet  63. 
Against  My  Love  shall  be,  as  I  am  now, 
With  Time's  injurious  hand  crush 'd  and  o'erwom, 
When  hours  have  drain'd  his  blood,  and  fill'd  his  brow 
With  lines  and  wrinkles,  when  his  youthful  morn 
Hath  travell'd  on  to  age's  steepy  night, 
And  all  those  beauties  whereof  now  he  's  king 
Are  vanishing  or  vanish 'd  out  of  sight. 
Stealing  away  the  treasure  of  his  spring,  — 
For  such  a  time  do  I  now  fortify 
Against  confounding  age's  cruel  knife, 
Tliat  he  shall  never  cut  from  memory 
My  sweet  Love's  beauty,  though  My  lover's  life; 
His  beauty  shall  in  these  black  lines  be  seen,  — 
And  they  shall  live,  and  he  in  them  still  green. 

In  this  stanza  he  declares  that  he  writes  this 
poem  to  perpetuate  the  dramas.  "Against  My 
Love  [it  will  be  remembered  that  Shakespeare  was 
added  to  "  My  Love,"  but  not  as  a  true  love,  in  the 
fortieth  stanza]  shall  be,  as  I  am  now"  (the  time 
will  come  when  Shakespeare  will  be  enfeebled  as 
he  is).  Time  will  wear  out  his  vigor,  attenuate 
and  weaken  his  frame.  His  blood  will  be  thinned, 
and   wrinkles   and    lines   will   mark   his   visage. 


108  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

His  morn  of  youth  will  be  superseded  by  the 
night  of  infirm  old  age.  His  freshness  and  joy- 
ousness,  now  so  attractive,  and  all  the  strength  of 
his  manhood,  will  disappear,  carrying  with  them 
the  hopes  and  aspirations  of  his  early  life,  and 
the  ambition  and  energy  of  his  spring.  '^Against 
confounding  age's  cruel  knife"  (to  forestall  the 
effect  of  these  infirmities  in  Shakespeare),  and 
that  they  may  not  be  equally  destructive  to  ''My 
sweet  Love's  beauty"  (his  dramas),  though  they 
will  destroy  "My  lover's  [Shakespeare's]  life," 
"these  black  lines"  (the  printed  lines  compos- 
ing this  poem),  shall  preserve  them,  and  their 
beauty  shall  "in  them  still  be  green"  (always 
fresh). 

May  it  not  have  been  possible  that  it  was  one 
part  of  the  arrangement  between  Bacon  and 
Shakespeare,  that  Shakespeare  should  abandon 
all  care  for  the  dramas  at  the  time  of  his  re- 
tirement from  the  theatre,  and  that  their  history 
from  that  period  should  be  left  for  the  world  to 
solve  ?  There  is  something  very  curious  about  the 
closing  period  of  Shakespeare's  life.  No  evidence 
has  ever  been  found  to  show  that  he  bestowed 
any  attention  upon  the  plays  after  they  ceased 
to  add  to  his  revenues.  Nothing  in  his  will 
shows  that  he  claimed  any  property  in  them 
at  the  time  of  his  death.  His  efi'fecte  and  papers 
did  not  contain  any  reference  to  them,  nor  was 
there  even  a  letter  or  manuscript  from  which  it 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  109 

could  be  inferred  that  he  had  ever  written  a  line 
of  them.  He  died  and  left  no  other  sign  than  the 
fearful  lines  on  his  tomb  which  have  so  long  pre- 
vented the  removal  of  his  bones  to  Westminster 
Abbey.  Either  Bacon  knew  at  the  time  he  wrote 
this  stanza  that  this  was  to  be  the  condition  of 
the  dramas  at  Shakespeare's  death,  or  that  Shake- 
speare was  not  likely  from  habit  or  inclination 
to  care  for  their  preservation.  I  incline  to  the 
former  opinion,  as  well  because  of  the  intense  in- 
terest manifested  for  their  perpetuity  in  this  poem, 
as  the  words  in  Bacon's  will  bequeathing  his  works 
and  memory  to  *Hhe  next  ages  and  foreign  coun- 
tries." He  foresaw  the  time  when  the  authorship 
of  these  works  would  be  investigated,  and  ''for  such 
a  time"  did  he  "fortify"  against  the  "  confound- 
ing" which  "cruel  age"  would  be  likely  to  intro- 
duce. That  "confounding"  has  come,  and  the 
question  will  not  rest  without  a  just  settlement. 


Sonnet  G4. 

When  I  have  seen  by  Time's  fell  hand  defac'd, 
The  rich  proud  cost  of  outworn  buried  age, 
When  sometime  lofty  towers  I  see  down-raz'd, 
And  brass  eternal  slave  to  mortal  rage, 
When  I  have  seen  the  hungry  ocean  gain 
Advantage  on  the  kingdom  of  the  shore, 
And  the  firm  soil  win  of  the  watery  main, 
Increasing  store  with  loss  and  loss  with  store,  - 
When  I  have  seen  such  interchange  of  state, 
Or  state  itseH  confounded  to  decay, 


110  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Ruin  hath  taught  Me  thus  to  ruminate, 
That  Time  will  come  and  take  My  Love  away. 
This  thought  is  as  a  death,  which  cannot  choose 
But  weep  to  have  that  which  it  fears  to  lose. 


He  assigns  other  reasons  in  this  stanza  for  his 
fears  concerning  the  perpetuity  of  the  dramas. 
The  devastations  wrought  by  Time  upon  the  rich- 
est and  most  sacred  memorials,  the  overthrow  of 
"lofty  towers/'  and  the  destruction  of  works  and 
statues  of  brass,  in  broils  and  insurrections;  the 
encroachments  of  the  sea  upon  the  land,  and  the 
gains  of  the  land  from  the  sea; — all  these  inter- 
changes, as  well  as  the  changes  in  governments 
often  ending  in  ruin,  have  caused  him  to  fear  that 
a  like  calamity  may  occur  to  his  Love  (his  dramas). 
He  is  overwhelmed  with  regret  at  the  thought, 
*' which  cannot  choose  but  weep  to  have  that  which 
it  fears  to  lose"  (and  grieves  that  he  cannot  claim 
the  dramas  as  his  own,  since  he  is  so  much  con- 
cerned for  their  future  condition). 

This  stanza  corroborates  my  impression  that 
there  must  have  been  some  understanding  by 
which  the  dramas  were  to  be  abandoned  by  both 
Bacon  and  Shakespeare,  and  no  further  explana- 
tion of  them  given  than  such  as  appeared  attrib- 
uting them  to  Shakespeare,  and  their  concealed 
history  in  this  poem.  This  poem  was  probably 
understood  by  Shakespeare,  at  the  time  it  was 
written,  to  contain  a  full  history  of  the  dramas. 
If  so,  it  goes  far  to  account   for  the  meagre  evi- 


m  THE  SONNETS.  m 

dence  concerning  their  origin.  Bacon  gave  to 
time  the  revealment  of  a  history  which  he  dared 
not  tell  during  his  life.  Shakespeare  retired  to 
enjoy  the  fortune  he  had  acquired,  and  the  fame 
of  his  imputed  authorship,  until  the  true  author 
should  be  discovered.  I  have  no  doubt  that  Bacon 
reasoned  that  there  was  fame  enough  for  him  in 
the  Novum  Organum,  De  Augmentis,  and  his 
other  philosophical  works;  but  at  the  same  time 
felt  a  deep  pang  of  regret  whenever  it  occurred  to 
him  that  these  great  dramas  might  never  be  appre- 
ciated as  the  first  and  richest  fruits  of  his  mighty 
genius. 

Sonnet  65. 
Since  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  earth,  nor  boundless  sea, 
But  sad  mortality  o'ersways  their  power, 
How  with  this  rage  shall  beauty  hold  a  plea, 
Wliose  action  is  no  stronger  than  a  flower  ? 
O,  how  shall  summer's  honey  breath  hold  out 
Against  the  wrackful  siege  of  battering  days. 
When  rocks  impregnable  are  not  so  stout, 
Nor  gates  of  ateel  so  strong,  but  time  decays  ? 
0  fearful  meditation  !  where,  alack. 
Shall  Time's  best  jewel  from  Time's  chest  lie  hid  ? 
Or  what  strong  hand  can  hold  his  swift  foot  back  ? 
Or  who  his  spoil  of  Beauty  can  forbid  ? 
O,  none,  unless  this  miracle  have  might, 
That  in  black  ink  My  Love  may  still  shine  bright. 

He  infers  from  the  argument  in  the  preceding 
stanza  that  nothing  can  preserve  his  dramas,  un- 
less it  is  the  ink  with  which  from  time  to  time 
they  may  be  printed.     All  durable  objects  of  hu- 


112  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

man  origin  are  sooner  or  later  destroyed  by  the 
ravages  of  Time, — even  the  sea  and  earth  are  sub- 
ject to  changes  wrought  by  him.  How,  with  no 
adequate  power  of  resistance,  is  Beauty  to  contend 
successfully  with  this  destroyer?  Amid  the  wrecks 
which  war  and  siege  make,  what  shall  prolong  her 
sweet  life?  How  can  she  live  when  Time  consumes 
the  strongest  structures  of  stone  and  metal?  It  is 
fearful  to  contemplate  what  may  become  of  '*  Time's 
best  jewel,"  or  where  she  may  be  concealed  to  es- 
cape this  general  ruin.  There  is  no  help  for  her 
unless  the  "miracle"  (the  marvellous  power)  of 
being  multiplied  in  printer's  ink  shall  cause  "My 
Love"  (the  dramas),  to  "shine  bright"  (to  be  per- 
petuated). 

Sonnet  66. 
Tir*d  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry,  —    . 
As,  to  behold  desert  a  beggar  born, 
And  needy  nothing  trimm'd  in  jollity, 
And  purest  faith  unhappily  foresworn, 
And  gilded  honour  shamefully  misplac'd, 
And  maiden  virtue  rudely  strumpeted, 
And  right  perfection  wrongfully  disgrac'd, 
And  strength  by  limping  away  disabled, 
And  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority, 
And  folly,  doctor-like,  controlling  skill, 
And  simple  truth  miscall'd  simplicity. 
And  captive  good  attending  captain  ill; 

Tir'd  with  all  these,  from  these  would  I  begone, 
Save  that,  to  die,  I  leave  My  Love  alone. 

His  object  in  this  stanza,  in  summarizing  the 
subjects  illustrated  by  the  plays  written  and  per- 


m  THE  SO^r^LTS.  113 

formed,  at  this  time,  is  doubtless  to  show  that  by 
their  departure  from  Truth  and  nature  the}^  were 
evil  and  corrupt  in  their  influence.  He  had  no 
patience  with  their  character,  and  when  he  says, 
*'  for  restful  death  I  cry,"  it  was  a  polite  form  of 
expressing  our  slang  phrase  "  give  us  a  rest,'^  and 
meant  the  same.  The  playwrights  were  crowding 
the  stage  with  sensational  pieces,  not  unlike  those 
of  our  own  day.  The  subjects  as  expressed  in  the 
stanza  explain  themselves  better  than  any  lan- 
guage of  mine  can  do  it.  They  show  that  the 
theatre  in  Elizabeth's  time  was  not  reliable  as  a 
school  of  morality,  and  the  taste  which  tolerated 
the  grand  creations  of  Bacon  was  better  satisfied, 
perhaps,  with  the  blood-curdling  dramas  of  Web- 
ster, or  the  licentious  comedies  of  Green,  Ben  Jon- 
son,  and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  Whatever  the 
plays,  and  whoever  the  writers,  no  stronger  evi- 
dence of  their  immoral  tendencies  are  needed 
than  that  they  were  condemned  by  the  author  of 
the  plays  attributed  to  Shakespeare.  His  distaste 
for  them  was  strong  enough  to  make  him  wish  to 
^'begone"  from  them,  "save  that  to  die''  (to  go 
from  them)  would  be  to  "  leave  My  Love  alone  " 
(to  forsake  his  own  dramas). 

Sonnet  67. 
Ah  !  wherefore  with  infection  should  he  live, 
And  with  his  presence  grace  impiety, 
That  sin  by  him  advantage  should  achieve 
And  lace  itself  with  his  society  ? 


114  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Why  should  false  painting  imitate  his  cheek. 

And  steal  dead  seeing  of  his  living  hue  ? 

Why  should  poor  beauty  indirectly  seek 

Roses  of  shadow,  since  his  rose  is  true  ? 

Why  should  he  live,  now  Nature  bankrupt  is, 

Beggar'd  of  blood  to  blush  through  lively  veins  ? 

For  she  hath  no  exchequer  now  but  his, 

And,  prou  1  of  many,  lives  upon  his  gains. 

0,  him  she  stores,  to  show  what  wealth  she  had 
In  days  long  since,  before  these  last  so  bad. 

His  contempt  for  the  dramas  of  his  own  day, 
emphasized  by  his  regret  at  seeing  his  own  dramas 
in  their  company,  is  more  fully  expressed  in  this 
and  the  following  stanza.  Why  should  the  beauty 
which  he  has  illustrated  live  with  such  "  infec- 
tion "  (exposed  to  the  contamination  of  their  in- 
fluence), and  thus  in  representation  tolerate  their 
untruth  and  vulgarity  ?  Why  should  their  pro- 
fanity and  obscenity  find  a  place  on  the  stage  where 
his  dramas  are  performed  ?  Why  should  those 
who  personate  their  characters  imitate  the  natural 
beauty  of  the  characters  he  had  drawn,  by  giving 
a  false  color  to  their  faces,  and  a  livid  hue  to  their 
flesh  ?  Why  should  Beauty  as  exhibited  by  them, 
by  these  and  other  indirect  means,  decorate  him- 
self, when  his  own  adornment  only  is  the  truest 
of  ornaments  ?  Why  should  Beauty,  devoid  of  all 
natural  grace,  "beggar'd  of  blood  to  blush  through 
lively  veins  "  (his  true  nature  concealed  with  paint 
and  gewgaws),  be  attempted  in  the  performances  ? 
Nature  ''hath  no  exchequer  now  but  his"  (he 
in  his  truth  furnishes  the  real  wealth  of  all  true 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  115 

characterizations),  and  "proud  of  many,  lives 
upon  his  gains"  (many  dramas  have  been  writ- 
ten in  which  life  has  been  fitly  represented),  but 
they  are  withdrawn  from  the  stage.  Their  great 
superiority  to  those  now  in  vogue  is  painfully  ap- 
parent by  contrast. 


Sonnet  68. 
Thus  in  his  cheek  the  map  of  days  outworn, 
Wlieu  beauty  liv'd  and  died  as  flowers  do  now, 
Before  these  bastard  signs  of  fair  were  born, 
Or  durst  inhabit  on  a  living  brow; 
Before  the  golden  tresses  of  the  dead, 
The  right  of  sepulchres,  were  shorn  away, 
To  live  a  second  life  on  second  head, 
Ere  Beauty's  dead  fleece  made  another  gay: 
In  him  those  holy  antique  hours  are  seen, 
Without  all  ornament,  itself  and  true. 
Making  no  summer  of  another's  green. 
Robbing  no  old  to  dress  his  Beauty  new; 
And  him  as  for  a  map  doth  Nature  store. 
To  show  false  Art  what  beauty  was  of  yore. 

His  indignation  at  the  artificiality  in  which  the 
drama  is  represented  is  expressed  in  this  stanza. 
"Thus  is  his  cheek  the  map  of  days  outworn,  when 
beauty  liv'd  and  died  as  flowers  do  now"  (we  see, 
as  upon  a  map,  in  the  drama  of  past  years,  what 
Beauty  was  when  life  and  death  in  character  were 
naturally  represented).  "Before  these  ba&tard 
signs  of  fair  were  born"  (before  personal  decora- 
tion was  introduced,  or  even  permitted  in  use; 
before  the  hair  was  cut  from  the  heads  of  the  dead 


113  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

to  adorn  the  heads  of  the  living,  thus  using  the  or- 
naments which  gave  Beauty  to  the  grave,  to  give 
life  to  a  false  show  of  gayety.  "In  him  those  holy 
antique  hours  are  seen,  without  all  ornament, 
itself  and  true"  (a  time  when  any  adornment  of 
natural  beauty  would  have  been  to  profane  it;  it 
was  most  beautiful  as  nature  made  it).  In  the 
words  of  Thomson:  — 

"Beauty  when  unadom'd  's  adorn 'd  the  most." 

It  "made  no  summer  of  another's  green"  (did 
not  imitate  in  one  performance  what  properly 
belonged  to  another);  "robbing  no  old  to  dress 
his  Beauty  new"  (nor  steal  the  sentiment  from 
one  author  to  supply  the  deficiencies  of  another). 
The  falsities  of  art  of  which  he  complains  will 
appear  on  comparison  with  the  representations  of 
former  days. 

His  own  dramas,  doubtless  performed  with  all 
the  appliances  so  hateful  to  him,  were  what  ren- 
dered them  so  specially  obnoxious.  His  dramas 
were  all  sufiPicient  of  themselves  to  illustrate  the 
truth  they  contained,  and  all  outside  parapher- 
nalia, while  it  did  not  improve  the  sentiments  they 
contained,  imparted  a  false  glare  to  the  moral  and 
natural  beauty  in  which  truth  was  enveloped.  Of 
themselves,  they  were  the  very  embodiment  of 
truth,  clothed  in  the  beauty  of  sentiment  and 
poetry.  What  could  painting  and  false  hair,  and 
the  other  gewgaws  used  in  theatrical  display,  add 
to  them?    He  was  disgusted  with  these  appliances. 


IN   THE  SONNETS.  117 

His  whole  soul  rejected  them;  but  there  was  no 
remedy,  and  he  dismisses  the  subject  by  showing 
in  contrast  how  far  they  were  surpassed  in  the 
early  days  of  the  drama,  before  such  adornments 
were  brought  into  use. 


Sonnet  69. 
Those  parts  of  Thee  that  the  world's  eye  doth  view 
"Want  nothing  that  the  thought  of  hearts  can  mend; 
All  tongues,  the  voice  of  souls,  give  Thee  that  due, 
Uttering  bare  truth,  even  so  as  foes  commend. 
Thy  outward  thus  with  outward  praise  is  crown 'd; 
But  those  same  tongues  that  give  Thee  so  Thine  own, 
In  other  accents  do  this  praise  confound, 
By  seeing  farther  than  the  eye  hath  shown. 
They  look  into  the  beauty  of  Thy  mind, 
And  that,  in  guess,  they  measure  by  Thy  deeds; 
Then,  churls,  their  thoughts,  although  their  eyes  were  kind, 
To  Thy  fair  flower  add  the  rank  smell  of  weeds: 
But  why  Thy  odour  matcheth  not  Thy  show. 
The  solve  is  this,  that  Thou  dost  common  grow. 

He  tells  in  this  stanza  of  the  reception  accorded 
to  his  plays  by  the  public.  "Those  parts  of  Thee 
that  the  world's  eye  doth  view''  (the  impression 
which  in  performance  they  make  upon  the  audi- 
iice),  "want  nothing  that  the  thought  of  hearts 
can  mend"  (need  no  addition  in  sentiment, 
thought,  or  action);  "all  tongues"  (the  voice  of 
souls)  "give  Thee  that  due"  (this  is  the  opinion  of 
all  who  can  appreciate  them).  "Even  so  as  foes 
commend"  (probably  this  refers  to  other  pla}^- 
writers  who  were  jealous  of  Shakespeare's  success 


118  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEAJiE 

as  an  author).  *' Thine  outward  thus  with  out- 
ward praise  is  crow^n'd''  (in  external  representa- 
tion they  are  abundantly  successful).  "But  those 
same  tongues  that  give  Thee  so  Thine  own  "  (the 
same  audiences,  thus  lavish  of  praise  of  their  scenic 
display  and  the  characters),  ''in  other  accents  do 
this  praise  confound,  by  seeing'  farther  than  the 
eye  hath  shown"  (their  criticisms  of  the  subject- 
matter  of  the  play  are  so  various  and  conflicting 
as  to  "confound"  or  perplex  them  in  forming  any 
settled  opinion  of  its  merits).  "They  look  into 
the  beauty  of  Thy  mind,  and  that,  in  guess,  they 
measure  by  Thy  deeds"  (they  disagree  about  the 
design  of  the  author,  and  the  truth  he  intended 
to  illustrate,  and  not  fully  comprehending  it,  guess 
at  such  conclusions  as  the  action  of  the  play  would 
seem  to  warrant).  In  this  manner,  though  pleased, 
they  mistake  the  "fair  flowers"  (the  real  beauty), 
and  "add  the  rank  smell  of  weeds"  (attribute 
meanings  to  it  that  are  incorrect).  "But  why 
Thy  odour  matcheth  not  Thy  show,  the  solve  is 
this,  that  Thou  dost  common  grow"  (the  reason 
wdiy  the  plaj^s  are  not  appreciated  at  their  true 
worth  is  because  other  waiters  having  witnessed 
them  are  now  introducing  plays  in  which  they 
aim  to  illustrate  truth, and  this  makes  Thou  (Truth) 
so  common,  that  in  his  dramas  he  is  lost  sight  of). 

Sonnet  70. 
That  Thou  art  blam'd  shall  not  be  Thy  defect, 
For  slander's  mark  was  ever  yet  the  fair; 


IN-  THE  SONNETS.  119 

The  ornament  of  beauty  is  Suspect, 
A  crow  that  flies  in  heaven's  sweetest  air. 
So  Thou  be  good,  slander  doth  but  approve 
Thy  worth  the  greater,  being  woo'd  of  time; 
For  canker  vice  the  sweetest  buds  doth  love, 
And  Thou  present'st  a  pure  unstained  prime. 
Thou  hast  pass'd  by  the  ambush  of  young  days, 
Either  not  assail'd  or  victor  being  charg'd; 
Yet  this  Thy  praise  cannot  be  so  Thy  praise, 
To  tie  up  envy  evermore  enlarg'd; 

If  some  suspect  of  ill  mask'd  not  Thy  show, 
Then  Thou  alono  kingdoms  of  hearts  shouldst  owe. 

He  declares  in  this  stanza  that  it  is  for  no  lack 
of  merit  in  his  dramas  that  the  public  does  not 
fully  appreciate  them.  There  is  no  defect  in  their 
thought  or  truth,  but  being  praised  and  admired, 
it  is  but  natural  that  they  should  be  a  mark  for 
slander  and  suspicion.  Those  who  add  ornament 
and  decoration  to  beauty  are  the  first  to  find  fault 
with  those  who  are  content  to  let  beauty  speak  for 
herself  without  these  additions.  If  Thou  (Truth) 
is  preserved  in  purity,  slander  helps  instead  of 
hurts  thought,  and  Time,  which  discovers  and  ex- 
poses his  malice,  adds  thereby  to  the  worth  and 
might  of  thought.  Thou's  purity  assailed  by  slan- 
der is  like  the  canker  which  assails  the  sweetest 
flowers.  But  what  has  Thou  to  fear  from  it  ?  In 
his  youthful  days  (when  first  brought  in  contact 
with  inexperience)  he  escaped  assault,  or  when 
assailed,  always  proved  victorious.  Even  these 
successes  cannot  silence  envy,  which  is  always  free 
and  ready  to  do  its  work.     If  he  escaped  alto- 


120  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

gether,  he  would  be  the  only  one  iu  the  world  who 
was  worshipped  by  all. 

Sonnet  71. 
No  longer  mourn  for  Me  when  I  am  dead, 
Than  you  shall  hear  the  surly  sullen  bell 
Give  warning  to  the  world  that  I  am  fled 
From  this  vile  world,  with  vilest  worms  to  dwell; 
Nay,  if  You  read  this  line,  remember  not 
The  hand  that  writ  it,  for  I  love  You  so. 
That  I  in  Your  sweet  thoughts  would  be  forgot. 
If  thinking  on  Me  then  should  make  You  woe. 
O,  if,  I  say,  You  look  upon  this  verse 
When  I  perhaps  compounded  am  with  clay, 
Do  not  so  much  as  My  poor  name  rehearse, 
But  let  Your  love  even  with  My  life  decay, 

Lest  the  wise  world  should  look  into  Your  moan. 
And  mock  You  with  me  after  I  am  gone. 

This  refers  to  that  period  in  the  life  of  Bacon 
(1504)  when  by  a  vacancy  in  the  office  of  solicitor- 
general  he  was  encouraged  to  apply  for  the  appoint- 
ment. "He  had  been  counsel  extraordinary  to  the 
queen,"  says  Chambers,  "since  1590,  and  three 
years  afterwards  sat  in  Parliament  for  the  county 
of  Middlesex."  Essex,  at  that  time  in  the  plenti- 
tude  of  his  power,  the  special  favorite  of  Eliza- 
beth, was  Bacon's  most  ardent  supporter.  He 
spared  neither  pains  nor  means  to  obtain  his 
appointment.  Bacon  regarded  it  as  a  certainty, 
and  as  the  duties  of  the  office  would  require  his 
constant  and  unceasing  labor,  he  felt  that  the 
time  had  come  when  he  must  abandon  play-writ- 
ing, and  bid  farewell  to  literary  pursuits. 


IN  THE  SON-NETS.  121 

In  anticipation  of  this  change,  his  anxieties 
were  increased,  lest  the  queen  should  discover 
that  he  had  written  for  the  theatre  and  reject 
him.  These  stanzas  undoubtedly  reflect  the  con- 
dition of  his  mind  at  that  time.  The  death  of 
which  he  speaks  is  the  abandonment  of  writing 
which  he  contemplates.  The  stanzas  are  ad- 
dressed to  You  (Beauty).  "No  longer  mourn  for 
Me  when  I  am  dead,  than  You  shall  hear  the  surly 
sullen  bell"  (let  me  be  forgotten  as  the  writer 
of  these  beautiful  dramas  as  soon  as  my  appoint- 
ment is  announced).  ''Give  warning  to  the  world 
that  I  am  fled"  (gone  from  my  lodgings)  ''from 
this  vile  world"  (from  Gray's  Inn),  "with  vilest 
worms  to  dwell "  (to  the  criminal  courts  of  West- 
minster). "Nay,  if  You  read  this  line,  remember 
not  the  hand  that  writ  it"  (no  beauty  in  the  sen- 
timent or  style  of  the  composition  must  betray 
him),  "for  I  love  You  so,  that  I  in  Your  sweet 
thoughts  would  be  forgot"  (he  would  not  wish  to 
be  known  as  the  writer).  "  If  thinking  on  mo 
then  should  make  You  woe"  (as  it  would  cause 
his  ruin).  "0,  if,  I  say,  You  look  upon  this 
verse  when  I  perhaps  compounded  am  with  clay" 
(when  he  is  really  dead),  "do  not  so  much  as 
My  poor  name  rehearse,  but  let  Your  love  even 
with  My  life  decay"  (even  then  his  name  must 
not  be  known).  "  Lest  the  wise  world  should 
look  into  Your  moan,  and  mock  You  with  me 
after  I  am  gone  "  (lest  the  world,  recognizing  him 


122  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

as  the  writer,  should  visit  with  contempt  and  ridi- 
cule the  one  in  whose  name  he  wrote). 


SONITET  72. 
O,  lest  the  world  should  task  You  to  recite 
What  merit  liv'd  in  Me,  that  You  should  love 
After  My  death,  dear  love,  forget  Me  quite, 
For  You  in  Me  can  nothing  worthy  prove; 
Unless  You  would  devise  some  virtuous  lie, 
To  do  more  for  Me  than  Mine  own  desert, 
And  hang  more  praise  upon  deceased  I 
Than  niggard  Truth  would  willingly  impart: 
O,  lest  Your  true  love  may  seem  false  in  this, 
That  You  for  love  speak  well  of  Me  untrue, 
My  name  be  buried  where  My  body  is, 
And  live  no  more  to  shame  nor  Mo  nor  You! 
For  I  am  sham'd  by  that  which  I  bring  forth. 
And  80  should  You,  to  love  things  nothing  worfh. 

In  this  stanza  he  urges  his  own  unworthiness 
as  a  reason  for  the  concealment  of  his  name  as 
author  of  the  dramas.  "  0,  lest  the  world  should 
task  You  to  recite  what  merit  liv'd  in  Me  "  (lest 
it  should  be  suspected  that  he  had  written  the 
dramas),  "that  You  [Beauty]  should  love"  (and 
they  should  be  criticised,  to  discover,  if  possible, 
his  style),  "after  My  death,  dear  love,  forget  Me 
quite"  (after  his  appointment,  let  no  mention  of 
him  lead  to  his  betrayal),  "  unless  You  would 
devise  some  virtuous  lie,  to  do  more  for  Me  than 
Mine  own  desert"  (unless  you  can  divert  suspicion 
by  inventing  a  story  more  probable  and  easier  of 
belief  than  any  doubts),  "  and  hang  more  praise 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  123 

Upon  deceased  I  tlian  uiggard  Truth  would  will- 
ingly impart"  (and  by  speaking  well  of  him,  in 
flattering  terms,  render  his  position  an  honor  to 
him,  instead  of  a  grief).  "  0,  lest  Your  true  love" 
(your  beauty  as  delineated  in  the  dramas)  ''  may 
seem  false  in  this,  that  You  for  love  speak  well  of 
Me  untrue ''  (may  be  belied  by  bestowing  praise 
on  him  by  a  skilfully  contrived  falsehood  to  con- 
ceal his  own  untruth).  "  My  name  be  buried 
where  My  body  is"  (only  mentioned  in  connec- 
tion with  his  public  position),  "  and  live  no  more 
to  shame  nor  Me  nor  You"  (and  no  longer  be 
known  as  a  writer  for  the  stage,  as  a  bencher  at 
Gray's  Inn,  or  as  a  dabbler  with  the  muses). 
**  For  I  am  sham'd  by  that  which  I  bring  forth  " 
(it  was  a  shame  to  him  that  his  dramas  should 
be  presented  in  the  theatre,  before  miscellaneous 
audiences,  which  could  not  appreciate  them),  and 
you  will  be  equally  shamed  by  my  exposure. 

These  stanzas,  addressed  to  his  ideal  of  beauty, 
as  the  most  brilliant  feature  of  his  plays,  are 
doubtless  intended  to  give  the  readers  of  this 
poem,  when  its  true  authorship  shall  be  discov- 
ered, a  history  of  his  fears  and  anxieties  at  the 
most  critical  moment  of  his  public  career,  when 
fortune  was  seemingly  changing,  and  all  before 
him  was  bright  with  hope  and  promise.  His 
seven  years  of  obscurity  and  want  in  the  cloisters 
of  Gray's  Inn  were,  as  he  thought,  to  be  changed 
for  an  active  life  in  the  courts  of  Westminster. 


124  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

His  ambition  for  office,  wealth,  and  title  could  now, 
he  felt,  have  a  basis  to  work  upon,  which  would 
insure  its  ultimate  triumph.  There  w^as  nothing 
in  his  way  but  the  dreaded  effects  of  a  possible 
disclosure  of  his  connection  with  the  theatre,  and 
his  labors  as  a  playwright.  That  would  destroy 
his  prospects,  and  consign  his  name  to  obloquy. 
In  this  day,  with  these  dramas  in  the  fore  front 
of  all  the  literature  that  has  been  produced  in  all 
the  years  since  they  were  written,  it  seems  incred- 
ible indeed  that  their  presentation  to  the  world 
should  have  been  through  falsehood,  abandon- 
ment, and  tribulation.  The  only  man  of  that  time 
who  could  appreciate  the  dramas,  and  forecast 
their  destiny,  was  Bacon  himself,  and  he  was 
compelled  by  the  force  of  circumstances  to  sacri- 
fice them,  or  they  would  have  sacrificed  him.  He 
knew  they  must  immortalize  some  name;  they 
could  never  live  without  a  sponsor,  and  he  con- 
ferred that  honor,  the  noblest  in  the  world  of  let- 
ters, upon  Shakespeare,  hoping  and  believing  that 
in  some  of  the  ages  before  him  it  would  return, 
and  give  him  his  true  place  among  the  greatest 
of  the  w^orld's  benefactors. 


Sonnet  73. 

That  time  of  year  Thou  mayst  in  Me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 


IN   THE  SONNETS.  125 

In  Mo  Thou  seest  the  twilight  of  such  day 

As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west, 

Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 

Death's  second  self,  that  seah  up  all  m  rest. 

In  Me  Thou  seest  the  glowing  of  such  fire 

That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie, 

As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 

Consum'd  with  that  which  it  was  nourish 'd  by. 

This  Thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  Thy  Love  more  strong, 
To  love  that  well  which  Thou  must  leave  ere  long. 

This  stanza,  addressed  to  Thou  (Truth),  declares 
his  unfitness  for  work  in  the  condition  he  depicts 
for  himself.  He  is  like  a  late  autumn, — a  tree  to 
whose  boughs  a  few  faded  leaves  are  still  clinging, 
abandoned  by  the  birds  that  were  wont  to  sing 
there.  He  is  like  a  twilight  from  which  the  sun- 
light had  faded,  and  darkness  like  death  will  soon 
overwhelm.  *'In  me  Thou  seest  the  glowing  of 
such  fire  that  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie" 
(his  desire  for  writing  is  weakened,  he  cannot  in- 
fuse the  same  energy  and  brightness  into  his 
productions  that  he  did  before  his  prospects  for 
preferment  came).  **As  the  death-bed  whereon  it 
must  expire"  (he  is  losing  all  taste  and  inclination 
to  write,  and  thinks  he  will  never  do  it  again). 
"Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourished  by" 
(he  was  taught  in  youth  to  look  to  the  offices  and 
honors  of  public  life  as  the  reward  of  his  studies 
and  travels;  and  was  educated  with  those  objects 
in  view.  He  was  now,  as  he  believed,  about  to 
realize  these  promises,  and  they  absorbed  his  en- 
tire time,  so  that  he  had  none  to  give  to  writing). 


126  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

''This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy  love  more 
strong,  to  love  that  well  which  Thou  must  leave 
ere  long"  (his  love  of  writing  as  an  occupation 
had  been  a  passion,  and  leaving  it  even  for  oflSce 
would  be  a  great  sacrifice  of  happiness.  This 
feeling  grew  upon  him  as  the  time  for  its  indul- 
gence lessened). 

Sonnet  74. 
But  be  contented:  when  that  fell  arrest 
Without  all  bail  shall  carry  JNle  away, 
My  life  hath  in  this  line  some  interest, 
Which  for  memorial  still  with  Thee  shall  stay. 
When  Thou  reviewest  this,  Thou  dost  review 
The  very  part  was  consecrate  to  Thee: 
The  earth  can  have  but  earth,  which  is  his  due; 
My  spirit  is  Thine,  the  better  part  of  Me. 
So  then  thou  hast  but  lost  the  dregs  of  life, 
The  prey  of  worms,  My  body  being  dead, 
The  coward  conquest  of  a  wretch's  knife, 
Too  bcisc  of  Tliee  to  be  remembered. 

The  worth  of  that  is  that  which  it  contains, 
And  that  is  this,  and  this  with  Thee  remains. 

He  promises  in  this  stanza,  wben  he  is  appointed 
solicitor-general,  to  leave  this  poem  as  a  memorial 
of  his  dramas.  "But  be  contented,  when  that  fell 
arrest  without  all  bail  shall  carry  me  away"  (when 
he  goes  to  fill  the  office,  which  requires  his  per- 
sonal services,  and  cannot  be  supplied  by  another). 
*'  My  life  hath  in  this  line  some  interest,  which 
for  memorial  still  with  Thee  shall  stay"  (the 
''  interest "  was  the  preservation  in  this  poem  of  a 
history  (memorial)  of  the  part  he  had  performed 


m  THE  SOKNETS.  127 

in  the  production  of  the  dramas,  which  the  world 
sooner  or  later  would,  by  means  of  that  history, 
discover  and  understand).  ''When  Thou  review- 
est  this,  Thou  dost  review  the  very  part  was  conse- 
crate to  Thee"  (this  poem,  when  understood,  will 
he  found  to  contain  nothing  but  the  truth).  ''  The 
earth  can  have  but  earth,  which  is  his  due ''  (his 
body  will  die,  dissolve,  and  be  forgotten  or  uncared 
for).  ''  My  spirit  is  Thine,  the  better  part  of  Me  " 
(the  soul  and  spirit  which  through  that  body 
created  the  dramas,  the  only  part  of  him  worth 
saving,  is  Thou^s,  Truth's).  '*  So  then  thou  hast 
but  lost  the  dregs  of  life,  the  prey  of  worms,  my 
body  being  dead  "  (in  case  of  either  going  away, 
or  actually  dying,  nothing  of  any  value  is  lost  by 
Thou  as  long  as  this  poem  is  preserved).  ''The 
coward  conquest  of  a  wretch's  knife,  too  base  of 
Thee  to  be  remembered"  (this  alludes  to  a  period 
in  Bacon's  life  when  the  indignation  of  the  friends 
of  Essex  was  roused  against  him  for  his  speeches 
at  the  trial  of  that  nobleman.  His  life  had  been 
threatened,  and  his  friends  thought  he  was  in 
danger  of  secret  assassination). 

In  a  letter  addressed  to  "Lord  Henry  Howard, 
clearing  himself  of  aspersion  in  the  case  of  the 
Earl  of  Essex,"  in  1599,  Bacon  says  :  "  For  my 
part,  I  have  desired  better  than  to  have  my  name 
objected  to  envy,  or  my  life  to  a  ruffian's  violence. 
But  I  have  the  privy  coat  of  a  good  conscience." 

A  little  later  he  writes  to  Sir  Robert  Cecil,  con- 


128  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

eluding  thus:  *' As  to  any  violence  to  be  offered  to 
me,  wherewith  my  friends  tell  me,  with  no  small 
terror,  I  am  threatened,  I  thank  God  I  have  the 
privy  coat  of  a  good  conscience,  and  have  long 
since  put  off  any  fearful  care  of  life  or  the  acci- 
dents of  life."  To  the  queen  he  writes,  about  the 
same  time:  "  My  life  has  been  threatened  and  my 
name  libelled,  which  I  account  an  honour." 

"The  worth  of  that''  (his  body)  "is  that  which 
it  contains,  and  that  is  this  "  (the  Sonnets),  "  and 
this  with  Thee"  (his  thoughts)  "remains''  (the 
worth  of  that  "  interest "  above  alluded  to  is  the 
history  contained  in  this  poem,  which,  being  the 
truth,  will  not  be  lost). 


Sonnet  75. 
So  are  You  to  My  thoughts  as  food  to  life, 
Or  as  sweet-season'd  showers  are  to  the  ground; 
And  for  the  peace  of  You  I  hold  such  strife 
As  'twixt  a  miser  and  his  wealth  is  found: 
Now  proud  as  an  en j  oyer,  and  anon 
Doubting  the  filching  age  will  steal  his  treasure; 
Now  counting  best  to  be  with  You  alone, 
Then  better'd  that  the  world  may  see  My  pleasure; 
Sometime  all  full  with  feasting  on  Your  sight, 
And  by  and  by  clean  starved  for  a  look; 
Possessing  or  pursuing  no  delight. 
Save  what  is  had  or  must  from  You  be  took. 

Thus  do  I  pine  and  surfeit  day  by  day, 

Or  gluttoning  on  all,  or  all  away. 

He  tells  Beauty  in  this  stanza  of  his  delight 
when  thinking  of  him,  or  seeing  him  in  represen- 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  129 

tation  and  in  reading.  As  food  is  necessary  to 
preserve  life,  and  summer  showers  to  refresh  the 
earth,  so  is  beauty  needful  to  invigorate  his  mind. 
His  love  for  him  is  like  the  love  of  a  miser  for  his 
gold,  —  at  one  time  proud  of  his  delineation,  then 
fearful  that  he  may  be  robbed  of  his  attractiveness 
by  others.  He  is  pleased  to  contemplate  him  in 
private;  he  affords  food  for  conversation,  and  like  a 
feast  whi(?h  fills  him  with  delicacies,  feasts  his  eyes 
and  heart  to  the  full  in  theatrical  representations. 
*'And  by  and  by  clean  starved  for  a  look"  (when 
sometime  absent  from  his  thought  he  becomes 
eager  for  his  recall).  And  ''day  by  day"  all  his 
delight  is  in  his  presence,  and  all  his  misery  in 
his  absence. 

Sonnet  76. 
Why  is  my  verse  so  barren  of  new  pride, 
So  far  from  variation  or  quick  change  ? 
"Why,  with  the  time,  do  I  not  glance  aside 
To  new-found  methods  and  to  compounds  strange  ? 
Why  write  I  still  all  one,  ever  the  same, 
And  keep  invention  in  a  noted  weed, 
That  every  word  doth  almost  tell  My  name, 
Showing  their  birth,  and  where  they  did  proceed  ? 
O,  know,  sweet  love,  I  always  write  of  You, 
And  You  and  love  are  still  My  argument; 
So  all  My  best  is  dressing  old  words  new, 
Spending  again  what  is  already  spent: 
For  as  the  sun  is  daily  new  and  old, 
So  is  My  Love  still  telling  what  is  told. 

In  this  stanza  he  tells  his  name.     "Why  is  my 
verse  so  barren  of  new  pride,  so  far  from  variation 


130  DACOX  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

and  quick  change?"  (why  in  this  poem  does  he 
not  announce  some  new  achievements  of  his  pen, 
which  like  those  of  other  writers  for  the  stage  sac- 
rifice truth  and  beauty  to  the  public  taste  for 
variety  and  sudden  changes  and  eftects  in  theatri- 
cal portraiture?  Why  not,  in  imitation  of  them, 
find  something  new  and  strange,  and  compound 
a  play  instead  of  adhering  to  the  same  straight- 
forward course  with  which  he  commenced,  of  pre- 
senting the  one  great  theme,  Truth,  in  all  that  he 
writes?)  "And  keep  invention  in  a  noted  weed, 
that  every  word  doth  almost  tell  my  name  "  (Ba- 
con found  constant  use  in  all  his  writings,  as  well 
those  he  acknowledged  as  the  plays  attributed 
to  Shakespeare,  for  the  word  "invention."  It 
contained  wdder  meaning  for  him  than  any  other 
word  in  the  language,  and  the  offices  attrib- 
uted to  it  in  philosophy  are  fully  analyzed  and 
discussed  in  the  "Advancement  of  Learning." 
Its  greatest  power  was  in  origination,  and  under- 
stood in  that  sense,  it  was  the  power  by  which  the 
plays  were  created).  This  he  says  he  kept  in  a 
"noted  weed."  The  only  weed  of  which  history 
gives  account  in  Elizabeth^s  time  was  tobacco. 
It  was  introduced  into  England  by  some  of  the 
crews  who  returned  from  the  first  expedition  to 
Virginia,  fitted  out  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  Its 
use  by  Raleigh  soon  popularized  it  among  the 
nobility  and  upper  classes.  When  James  I. 
ascended  the  throne,  smoking   was  so  prevalent 


m  THE  SONNETS.  131 

that  in  dread  of  its  effects  upon  his  subjects,  the 
king  himself  denounced  its  use  in  a  strong  essay 
entitled  "A  Counterblast  against  Tobacco.''  Cam- 
den also  publiahed  a  powerful  argument  against 
its  use. 

Orthography  in  those  days  was  unsettled. 
Words  were  spelled  by  sound  rather  than  by 
rule,  and  generally  the  best  scholars  adopted 
rules  of  their  own.  The  word  "tobacco,"  by  its 
various  forms  of  pronunciation,  was  blessed  with 
an  orthography  that  would  fill  a  small  diction- 
ary. The  following  furnish  a  few  of  the  vari- 
eties:  Tobaco,  tobacco,  tobaca,  tobacy,  tobaccy, 
'bacco,  'bacy,  etc.,  ad  infinitum.  The  second  syl- 
lable was  as  perfect  then  as  now. 

Bacon,  by  confession  in  this  stanza,  must  have 
enjoyed  his  pipe.  It  soothed  him,  quieted  his 
nerves,  and  favored  that  composure  of  the  facul- 
ties needful  to  reflection  and  invention.  It  was 
undoubtedly  his  habit  to  resort  to  it  in  the  hours 
given  to  the  creation  of  his  great  dramas.  It  was 
in  the  placidity  which  it  imparted  to  his  system 
and  the  meditative  mood  it  inspired  that  he 
virtually  "kept  invention."  His  thoughts  were 
clearer,  his  plots  better  in  development,  and  his 
poesy  more  exuberant  than  they  would  have  been 
without  this  sedative. 

In  every  form  which  spelling  gave  to  tobacco, 
it  almost  told  the  name  of  Bacon.  This  evidence 
of  the  true  origin  of  the  dramas  of  Shakespeare, 


132  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

written  by  their  author  and  published  nearly 
three  centuries  ago,  during  Shakespeare's  life, 
cannot  by  any  force  of  logic  or  ingenuity  be  de- 
stroyed. It  is  unargumentable.  It  imparts. the 
force  of  truth  to  this  entire  history,  and  relieves 
it  of  the  suggestion,  improbable  in  itself,  that 
Shakespeare,  for  aught  that  appears,  might  have 
written  it  himself.  No  other  name  can  fill  the 
requirements  of  the  line  but  that  of  Bacon.  No 
anagram  could  be  constructed  which  would  avoid 
that  conclusion  connected  with  the  lines  preced- 
ing and  following  it.  How  plain,  then,  does  it 
appear  that  Bacon  alone  was  the  author,  when  we 
connect  the  announcement  made  in  this  stanza 
with  those  parts  of  the  poem  which  describe  his 
compulsory  attendance  upon  the  queen,  after  his 
appointment  as  counsel  extraordinary;  his  long 
months  of  suspense,  sorrow,  and  disappointment 
spent  in  the  effort  to  obtain  the  office  of  solicitor- 
general,  and  his  transfer  of  the  dramas  to  "Wiir' 
(Shakespeare), — matters  which  could  not  possi- 
bly have  formed  any  part  of  Shakespeare's  life. 

Aside  from  other  evidences  the  poem  may  con- 
tain, the  appearance  of  Bacon's  name  shows  a 
deliberate  purpose  in  him  to  reveal  himself  to 
posterity  as  the  author  of  the  dramas.  He  would 
not  otherwise  have  written  this  stanza,  or  for  that 
matter  this  poem,  for  both  were  unnecessary  for 
any  other  purpose.  The  poem,  with  the  exception 
of  a  few  stanzas,  has  no  special  merit,  and  being 


IN   THE  SONNETS.  133 

entirely  unintelligible  and  silly  without  interpre- 
tation of  some  kind,  no  such  person  as  the  author 
of  the  great  dramas  would  have  written  it  for 
mere  pastime.  All  former  interpretations  it  has 
received  have  been  nearly  as  incomprehensible  as 
the  bare  poem  itself.  They  tell  no  credible,  no 
consecutive,  story;  make  Shakespeare  a  licentious 
fool,  and  hold  him  up  before  the  world  as  the 
vilest  kind  of  a  debauchee,  and  most  unprinci- 
pled of  men  among  men,  on  his  own  confession. 
This  cannot  be  true.  Regarding  it  as  an  allegory 
which  contains  the  history  of  the  great  dramas, 
and  those  parts  of  it  which  cursorily  considered 
convey  a  prurient  meaning,  as  parts  illustrative 
of  the  circumstances  and  conditions  under  which 
those  dramas  were  written,  it  becomes  a  work  of 
the  greatest  possible  importance,  full  of  interest 
and  worth,  and  invaluable  in  the  history  it  reveals 
of  the  greatest  works  in  all  literature. 

Half  the  persons  accused  of  and  tried  for  the 
highest  crimes  known  to  our  laws  have  been  con- 
victed and  punished  on  much  weaker  testimony 
than  is  herein  contained  in  proof  of  Bacon's 
authorship.  Great  lawyer  as  he  was,  Bacon  was 
not  unmindful  of  this,  and  shaped  his  narrative 
accordingly.  The  only  fault  that  can  be  found 
with  it  is,  that  he  succeeded  too  well  in  eluding 
detection,  and  reared  an  image  which  has  been  so 
long  and  so  universally  idolized,  that  it  has  become 
easier  for  the  world  to  cling  to  the  false  worship 
than  to  receive  the  real  divinity. 


134  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

"0,  know,  sweet  Love,  I  always  write  of  You,  and 
You  and  Love  are  still  My  argument"  (he  always 
wrote  of  Beauty,  and  at  this  time  he  was  writing 
of  beauty  and  love  conjoined),  from  which  I  infer 
that  the  particular  play  upon  which  he  was  en- 
gaged was  ''Eomeo  and  Juliet,"  which  White 
seems  to  think  was  written  in  1596.  If  I  have 
conjectured  rightly,  it  was  written  in  1594,  just 
previous  to  the  time  he  engaged  in  the  strife  for 
the  solicitorship,  which  required  all  his  energies. 
In  view  of  any  possible  clew  it  might  furnish  to 
his  exposure  as  a  playwright,  it  may  have  been 
withheld  from  the  stage  until  1596,  several 
months  after  his  defeat.  *'So  all  my  best  is 
dressing  old  words  new,  spending  again  what  is 
already  spent "  (this  play  is  founded  upon  a  novel 
written  by  Matteo  Bandello,  and  published  in 
1554,  so  that  it  was  indeed  a  "dressing  old  words 
new,"  etc.).  "  My  love"  (his  dramas),  like  the  sun, 
new  in  the  morning,  old  in  the  evening,  unites  the 
old  and  the  new  in  her  composition.  I  think  that 
''invention"  in  the  sixth  line  was  written  by  the 
author  in  the  plural.  It  is  the  antecedent  referred 
to  in  the  eighth  line,  which  being  plural,  should 
determine  its  number.  A  slight  oversight  of  the 
proof-reader  reasonably  accounts  for  the  mistake. 
''Showing  their  birth,  and  where  they  did  pro- 
ceed," can  allude  only  to  the  "inventions"  or 
dramas,  as  contrasted  with  the  "  new-found  meth- 
ods" and  "compounds  strange"  of  other  writers  of 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  135 

"the  time."     This  view  is  strengthened  by  the  two 
succeeding  lines: — 

**  0.  know,  sweet  Love,  I  always  write  of  You, 
And  You  and  Love  are  still  My  argument." 

He  was  "still"  at  the  time  delineating  Love  and 
Beauty  in  the  same  comedy. 


Sonnet  77. 

Thy  glass  will  show  Thee  how  Thy  lieauties  wear, 
Thy  dial  how  Thy  precious  minutes  waste; 
The  vacant  leaves  Thy  mind's  imprint  will  bear, 
And  of  this  book  this  learning  mayst  Thou  taste. 
The  wrinkles  which  Thy  glass  will  truly  show 
Of  mouthed  graves,  will  give  Thee  memory; 
Thou,  by  Thy  dial's  shady  stealth  mayst  know 
Time's  thievish  progress  to  eternity. 
Look,  what  Thy  memory  cannot  contain 
Commit  to  these  waste  blanks,  and  Thou  shalt  find 
Those  children  nurs'd,  deliver'd  from  Thy  brain, 
To  take  a  new  acquaintance  of  Thy  mind. 
These  offices,  so  oft  as  Thou  wilt  look, 
Shall  prol^t  Thee,  and  much  enrich  Thy  book. 

This  stanza  is  descriptive  of  his  initiatory  labor 
in  the  preparation  for  writing  a  drama. 

"Thy  glass"  alludes  to  and  signifies  public 
opinion.  This  will  determine  whether  the  truth 
and  beauty  supplied  by  Thy  (Thought),  when 
transformed  by  Thou  (Truth)  into  the  dramas,  will 
be  of  permanent  or  temporary  interest.  *'Thy 
dial,"  the  indicator  of  time's  flight,  will  show  him 
the  value  of  moments  in  this  work.     "The  vacant 


136  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

leaves  "  (the  blank  paper  upon  which  his  thoughts 
are  to  be  written  for  preservation  and  reference). 
''  This  book,"  composed  of  fugutive  thoughts  and 
collected  learning,  is  to  be  tested  as  it  progresses 
by  Thou  (Truth).  ''The  wrinkles  of  mouthed 
graves,"  which  his  glass  will  truly  show,  are 
such  selections  as  he  may  choose  from  the  writ- 
ings of  the  learned  men  and  sages  of  former  ages, 
being  still  reminded  by  the  dial  of  the  flight  of 
time.  Those  that  he  cannot  remember  he  must 
transcribe  in  his  book.  He  will  find  that  they 
will  aid  greatly  in  giving  substance  and  force 
to  his  own  thoughts  when  he  arranges  them  in 
form  for  use.  The  true  value  of  "these  offices" 
will  be  demonstrated  when,  under  the  guidance  of 
Thou  (Truth),  they  are  applied  to  the  faithful 
delineation  of  life  and  character.  It  will  be  seen 
from  this  stanza  what  his  leading  methods  were 
in  the  composition  of  the  dramas:  first,  he  gave 
his  own  thoughts  to  the  work,  careful  to  make  his 
plots  as  natural  as  possible.  Then  he  used  the 
thoughts  of  others  to  strengthen  his  own,  and  not 
transcend  the  truth.  It  required  the  mind  and 
skill  of  a  master  to  succeed  in  this  species  of  com- 
position, and  any  one  who  would  adopt  it  should 
be  conscious  of  possessing  the  imagery,  brain,  cul- 
tivation, and  application  of  Bacon  before  he  be- 
gins, or  he  will  be  sure  to  end  in  ridiculous 
failure.  He  says  as  much  himself  in  the  two  fol- 
lowinvr  stanzas. 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  137 

Sonnet  78. 
So  oft  have  I  invok'd  Thee  for  My  Muse, 
And  found  such  fair  assistance  in  My  verse, 
As  every  alien  pen  hath  got  My  use, 
And  under  Thee  their  poesy  disperse. 
Thine  eyes,  that  taught  the  dumb  on  high  ta  sing 
And  heavy  ignorance  aloft  to  fly. 
Have  added  feathers  to  the  learned's  wing, 
And  given  grace  a  double  majesty. 
Yet  be  most  proud  of  that  which  I  compile, 
Whose  influence  is  Thine  and  born  of  Thee: 
In  others'  works  Thou  dost  but  mend  the  style, 
And  arts  with  thy  sweet  graces,  graced  be; 
But  Thou  art  all  My  art,  and  dost  advance 
As  high  as  learning  My  rude  ignorance. 

In  this  stanza  he  alludes  to  a  play  which  was 
the  production  of  several  writers  of  the  period, 
himself  included.  *^  Every  alien  pen/'  he  says, 
has  got  his  use.  They  are  all  striving  to  imitate 
him.  ''And  under  Thee  [Thought]  their  poesy 
disperse."  It  is  noticeable  that  he  gives  them  no 
credit  for  Thou  (Truth). 

As  a  contrast  to  their  efforts,  he  tells  what  Thou 
(Truth)  has  done.  "Thine  [Truth]  eyes,  that 
taught  the  dumb  on  high  [himself  (Bacon)  of 
noble  parentage,  and  a  nobleman  in  expectancy] 
to  sing.^s  By  birth  and  position  he  was  entitled  to 
move  in  the  highest  circles,  socially  and  in  public 
life.  ''And  heavy  ignorance  [Shakespeare,  a  man 
without  education  or  culture]  aloft  to  fly  "  (to  enjoy 
the  renown  and  adulation  which,  as  the  imputed 
author  of  the  dramas,  followed  him).  "Thine 
eyes  "  (this  Truth),  that  has  done  so  much  for  him 


138  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

and  Shakespeare,  has  also  "  added  feathers  to  the 
learned's  wing"  (it  has  contributed  to  the  literary 
labors  of  writers  of  learning  and  education),  "and 
given  grace  a  double  majesty."  This  allusion  to 
''double  majesty"  must  have  been  the  second  and 
third  parts  of  King  Henry  VI.  Guizot  is  of  opin- 
ion that  Shakespeare  was  ''almost  entirely  a  stran- 
ger" to  the  first  part  of  Henry  VI.  He  says:  "'The 
True  History  of  the  Contention '  and  '  The  True 
Tragedy  of  Richard,  Duke  of  York,'  —  one  served 
as  a  matrix,  if  I  may  be  allowed  the  expression, 
for  the  second  part  of  Henry  VI.,  and  the  other 
for  the  third  part."  The  "True  History"  and 
"The  True  Tragedy"  were  performed  as  early  as 
1592.  Robert  Green,  one  of  the  authors,  died  in 
September  of  that  year.  They  were  rewritten 
afterwards,  with  many  changes  and  additions, 
and  appeared  as -the  second  and  third  parts  of 
Henry  VI. 

The  graceful  style  of  the  original  plays,  sup-' 
j)Osed  to  be  the  conjoint  productions  of  Peele, 
Green,  Marlow,  and  Shakespeare  (or,  as  I  say. 
Bacon),  was  what  Bacon  alluded  to  by  the  word 
"grace"  in  the  line  under  consideration.  "Thine 
eyes"  (Truth)  gave  to  this  "grace"  "a  double  ma- 
jesty,"— that  is,  changed  it  to  the  two  parts  of 
Henry  VI. 

The  contention  among  the  numerous  commen- 
tators upon  Shakespeare,  from  Theobald  down 
to  the  present  day,  concerning  the  authorship  of 


m  THE  SONNETS.  139 

these  plays,  has  been  quite  as  persistent,  and  in 
some  instances  nearly  as  bitter,  as  the  contention 
illustrated  by  the  plays  themselves.  The  prepon- 
derance of  the  multitudinous  opinions  favors  a 
joint  authorship  for  the  plays  originally  by  Shake- 
speare, Marlow,  Peele,  and  Green,  the  last  three 
learned  men  and  collegians.  In  an  able  essay, 
White  very  clearly  recognizes  the  style  of  each. 
This  was  probably  the  work  alluded  to  in  the 
eighty-sixth  stanza,  which,  as  the  '*  affable,  famil- 
iar ghost,"  Shakespeare  assisted  by  contributing 
such  passages  as  Bacon  supplied. 

Bacon  represents  the  *'  alien  pen  "  as  using  Thee 
(Thought)  only,  and  himself  as  illustrating  Thou 
(Truth).  He  asks  Thought  "to  be  most  proud  of 
that  part  of  the  play  which  he  compiles,  because, 
though  born  of  thought,  it  is  written  under  the 
influence  of  truth.  In  that  part  written  by  the 
others,  truth  has  only  mended  their  style,  and 
-thought  given  grace  to  their  art;  but  truth  has 
been  all  his  art,  and  has  enabled  him  "  to  advance 
as  high  as  learning  My  rude  ignorance  "  (to  place 
Shakespeare  on  an  equality  with  them  as  a  writer). 


Sonnet  79. 
Whilst  I  alone  did  call  upon  Thy  aid, 
My  verse  alone  had  all  Thy  gentle  grace. 
But  now  My  gracious  numbers  are  decay'd, 
And  My  sick  Muse  doth  give  another  place. 
I  grant,  sweet  love,  Thy  lovely  argument 
Deserves  the  travail  of  a  worthier  pen, 


140  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Yet  what  of  Thee  Thy  poet  doth  invent 
He  robs  Thee  of  and  pays  it  Thee  again. 
He  lends  Thee  virtue,  and  he  stole  that  word 
From  Thy  behaviour;  beauty  doth  he  give. 
And  found  it  in  Thy  cheek;  he  can  afford 
No  praise  to  Thee  but  what  in  Thee  doth  live. 
Then  thank  him  not  for  that  which  he  doth  say. 
Since  what  he  owes  Thee  Thou  Thyself  dost  pay. 

In  this  stanza  he  conveys  the  idea  that,  having 
ceased  to  write,  another  writer  has  taken  his  place, 
and  it  would  seem  is  also  writing  under  the  sanc- 
tion of  Shakespeare's  name.  When  he  was  the 
only  writer  who  used  Thy  (Thought),  "  My  verse," 
(this  poem  spoke  of  his  own  works  only).  "  But 
now  My  gracious  numbers  are  decay'd  "  (now  that 
he  has  ceased  to  write  dramas),  "My  sick  Muse" 
(he  reluctantly)  *'doth  give  another  place"  (an- 
nounces a  successor);  "I  grant,  sweet  love,  Thy 
lovely  argument "  (the  preparation  which  his  suc- 
cessor has  made  for  his  play)  "deserves  the 
travail  of  a  worthier  pen  "  (deserves  a  better  de- 
lineation than  he  has  given  it).  Yet  so  much  of 
it  as  he  has  taken  from  Thought,  he  has  returned 
to  Thought  again.  The  virtue  which  he  has  rep- 
resented he  took  from  Thy  (Thought),  and  the 
beauty  that  he  gives  to  his  characters  he  found  in 
him.  His  drama  is  entitled  to  no  praise  for  any 
merit,  that  he  did  not  find  in  the  material  which 
he  collected  from  others  for  its  construction.  In 
otlier  words,  it  has  no  originality,  and  all  that  "lie 
owes   Thee"    (the    preparation)    "Thou   [Truth], 


m  THE  SOyNLTS.  141 

Thyself  doth  pay."  Thought  has  been  put  in  form, 
but  without  any  power  of  beauty  or  truth  on  the 
part  of  the  writer,  and  is  of  no  more  value  than 
it  was  before  it  was  transposed  from  the  crude 
material.  This  is  as  much -as  to  say,  that  if  he  had 
used  the  same  material  he  would  have  produced  a 
much  better  play. 

Sonnet  80. 
O,  how  I  faint -when  I  of  You  do  write, 
Knowing  a  better  spirit  doth  use  Your  name, 
And  in  the  praise  thereof  spends  all  his  might, 
To  make  Mo  tongue-tied,  speaking  of  Your  fame! 
But  since  Your  worth,  wide  as  the  ocean  is, 
The  humble  as  the  proudest  sail  doth  bear, 
My  saucy  bark,  inferior  far  to  his, 
0:i  your  broad  main  doth  wilfully  appear. 
Your  shallowest  help  will  hold  Me  up  afloat, 
Whilst  he  upon  Your  soundless  deep  doth  ridej 
Or,  being  wrack'd,  I  am  a  worthless  boat. 
He  of  tall  bulldinj  and  of  goodly  pride. 
Then  if  he  thrive  and  I  be  cast  away, 
The  worst  was  this,  —  My  Love  was  My  decay. 

In  this  stanza  he  informs  us  that  he  (Bacon)  is 
studiously  pursuing  his  philosophical  inquiries. 
"0,  how  I  [Bacon  as  dramatist]  faint  when  I  of 
You  do  write,  knowing  a  better  spirit  [Bacon  as 
philosopher]  doth  use  Your  name  "  (the  contrast 
here  suggested  is  between  Beauty  (You)  in  poetry 
and  Beauty  in  philosophy,  the  one,  everything  ex- 
ternally attractive,  and  the  other  full  of  power  in- 
ternally, and  much  superior  in  strength  and  self- 
assertion).     **And  in  the  praise  thereof  spends  all 


142  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

his  might''  (all  his  power  of  research,  logic,  inven- 
tion, and  illustration  are  employed  to  demonstrate 
truth  and  beauty  in  philosophy).  "  To  make  Mo 
[dramatist]  tongue-tied,  speaking  of  Your  fame" 
(those  labors  will  show  wherein  the  plays  are 
deficient  in  demonstrating  and  enforcing  truth 
into  the  practice  of  mankind).  But  since  "Your 
worth"  (your  truth)  is  an  ocean  upon  which  ves- 
cels  of  every  size  and  cost  may  sail,  "My  saucy 
bark"  (his  poetry  and  plays)  will  not  be  de- 
prived of  this  right.  "Your  shallowest  help  will 
hold  Me  [dramatist]  up  afloat"  (his  dramas  need 
no  deep  philosophical  investigation  of  beauty 
for  their  ornamentation).  "Whilst  he  [philoso- 
pher] upon  Your  soundless  deep  doth  ride"  (his 
philosophy,  on  the  contrary,  will  be  of  the  most 
profound  nature).  If  his  dramas  should  fail,  it 
would  be  comparatively  unimportant,  as  his  phi- 
losophy is  more  exhaustive,  built  up  higher  in 
argument,  and  will  go  before  the  world  in  "goodly 
pride"  (with  the  name  of  Francis  Bacon  as  author, 
which  from  his  position  will  give  it  character). 
"The  worst"  of  it  is,  that  if  the  philosophy  suc- 
ceeds and  the  dramas  fail,  it  will  be  because  "My 
Love  was  My  decay"  (because  he  had  over-esti- 
mated his  powers  of  delineation). 

Sonnet  81. 
Or  shall  I  live  Your  epitaph  to  make, 
Or  Vou  survive  when  I  in  earth  am  rotten; 
From  hence  Your  memory  death  cannot  take, 
Although  in  Me  each  part  will  be  forgottexu 


TK  THE  SONNETS.  143 

Your  name  from  heace  immortal  life  shall  have, 
Though  I,  once  gone,  to  all  the  world  must  die; 
The  earth  can  yield  Me  but  a  common  grave, 
When  You  eatomb'J  in  men's  eyes  shall  lie. 
Your  monument  shall  be  My  gentle  verse, 
Which  eyes  not  yet  created  shall  o'er-read, 
And  tongues  to  be  Your  beiug  shall  rehearse 
When  all  the  breathers  of  this  world  are  dead; 
You  still  shall  live  —  such  virtue  hath  my  pen  — 
Where  breath  most  breathes,  even  in  the  mouths  of  men. 

In  tliis  stanza  he  assures  himself  that  if  his 
dramas  outlive  him  they  will  live  forever.  "  Or 
shall  I  live  Your  epitaph  to  make.''  This  seems 
to  be  a  closing  up  of  the  latter  part  of  the  line  in 
the  preceding  stanza,  and  means  simply  as  op- 
posed to  that  (or  he  will  outlive  his  dramas).  "Or 
You  survive  when  I  in  earth  am  rotten ''  (or 
though  he  should  die,  their  beauty  will  preserve 
them,  so  that  they  will  live  when  he  is  forgotten). 
Beauty  will  be  immortal  in  them,  though  he  be 
dead  "to  all  the  world."  His  remains  will  fill  a 
common  grave,  but  the  beauty  of  his  dramas  will 
be  seen  by  all  people.  This  poem  shall  give  their 
history,  and  shall  be  read  by  the  men  of  future 
ages,  and  they  shall  write  and  talk  about  your 
beauty  when  the  present  generation  has  ceased 
to  exist.  He  had  written  so  truly,  and  illustrated 
life  so  perfectly,  that  he  should  be  best  known  and 
appreciated  where  the  greatest  numbers  dwell. 
This  is  but  one  of  several  prophecies  in  this  poem 
foretelling  its  unending  life,  wliich  has  been  in 
the  course  of  a  continuous  fulfilment  ever  since  it 
was  written. 


144  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Sonnet  82. 
I  grant  Thou  wert  not  married  to  My  Muse, 
And  therefore  mayst  without  attaint  o'erlook 
The  dedicated  words  which  writers  use 
Of  their  fair  subject,  blessing  every  book. 
Thou  art  as  fair  in  knowledge  as  in  hue, 
Finding  Thy  worth  a  limit  past  My  praise, 
And  therefore  art  enforc'd  to  seek  anew 
Some  freaher  stamp  of  the  time-bettering  days. 
And  do  so,  love;  yet  when  they  have  devis'd 
What  strained  touches  rhetoric  can  lend, 
Thou  truly  fair  wert  truly  sympathiz'd 
In  true  plain  words  by  Thy  true-telling  friend; 
And  their  gross  painting  might  be  bstter  us'd 
Where  cheeks  need  blood;  in  Thee  it  is  abus'd. 

In  this  stanza,  in  the  form  of  an  apology  to  Thou 
(Truth)  for  neglecting  to  write  a  dedication  in  the 
style  and  fashion  of  the  times,  he  furnishes  a  key 
which  unfolds  the  true  meaning  of  the  dedicatory 
words  prefixed  to  this  poem.  Thou  (Truth),  be- 
ing as  accessible  to  all  as  to  him,  could  very  prop- 
erly overlook  the  want  of  a  dedication.  The  worth 
of  his  thoughts  surpassed  any  effort  he  might  make 
to  praise  Thy,  and  he  must  look  for  his  eulogy  in 
the  works  of  more  recent  writers.  But  he  would 
find  after  the  search,  notwithstanding  their  strained 
efforts,  that  Thou's  (Truth's)  merits  had  been  fully 
appreciated  and  set  forth  "  in  true  plain  words  by 
Thy  [Thought's]  true-telling  friend."  The  "gross 
painting  "  of  other  writers  could  be  much  better 
applied  to  subjects  that  stood  in  need  of  praise. 
It  was  only  belittling  Thee  (Thought)  to  squander 
it  on  him. 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  145 

Those  "true  plain  words"  have  puzzled  the 
heads  of  more  writers  during  the  past  three  cen- 
turies than  any  equal  number  of  ''true  plain 
words "  in  the  English  language.  It  cannot  be 
deemed  presumptuous  in  me  to  attempt  an  inter- 
pretation which  has  foiled  so  many,  for  if  I  fail 
too,  I  shall  die  in  the  best  of  company.  The 
lines  just  quoted  tell  that  the  poems  are  dedi- 
cated to  Thou,  or  that  Thou  is  the  oiae  ''  sympa- 
thiz'd "  by  the  dedication.  That  furnishes  the 
key  to  its  exposition.  Mr.  W.  H.,  the  person 
seemingly  addressed,  fills  a  subordinate  place. 
This  is  the  language  as  it  was  written  origi- 
nally:— 

TO  .  THE  .  ONLIE  •  BEGETTER  •  OF  . 

THESE  .   INSVING  •  SONNETS  • 

M'-  W.  H.  ALL  .  HAPPINESSE  . 

AND.  THAT.  ETERNITIE  • 

PROMISED. 

BY. 

OVR.  EVER-LIVING.  POET. 

WISHETH  . 

THE  .  WELL-WISHING  • 

ADVENTVRER . IN . 

SETTING  . 

FORTH . 

T.  T. 

I  read  the  dedication  thus: — 

"  MR.  W.  H.  WISHETH  THAT  ETERNITY  PROMISED 
BY  OUTl  EVER-LIVING  POET,  TO  THE  ONLY  BEGETTER 
OF  THESE  ENSUING  SONNETS,  AND  ALL  HAPPINESS 
TO  THE  WELL-WISHING  ADVENTURER  IN  SETTING 
FORTH  T.  T.  (the  TRUTH)." 
10 


146  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEAUE 

Thou  (Truth)  is  claimed  and  represented  by  the 
poet  from  the  commencement  to  the  close  of  the 
poem  to  be  its  ''only  begetter."  Thy  is  the  thought 
that  puts  the  truth  in  form.  Beauty  is  used  as  an 
ornament  only.  The  poem  narrates  the  truth  con- 
cerning the  dramas,  their  origin,  and  the  reasons 
for  their  appearance  as  the  works  of  Shakespeare. 
What  matters  it  who  "Mr.  W.  H.''  or  who  "the 
well-wishing  adventurer"  is?  They  are  evidently 
used  or  assumed  to  conceal  the  real  purpose  of  the 
dedication;  probably,  like  the  rest  of  it,  entirely 
allegorical.  That  T.  T.  means  The  Truth,  instead 
of  Thomas  Thorpe,  as  generally  believed,  is  seem- 
ingly, at  least,  refigured  in  the  alliteration,  "  true 
telling"  in  the  foregoing  lines,  and  without  some 
close  akin  to  it,  it  is  impossible  to  complete  the 
sense  of  the  dedication. 

What  is  the  evidence  that  Thomas  Thorpe  ever 
existed?     The  following  entry  in  the  Stationer's 
Register,   under   the   date   of   May    20,    1609,   is 
all:  — 
"Thomas  Thorpe. — Entred  for  his  copie  under 

th[e    h]andes    of    master    Wilson    and    master 

Lownes  Warden,  a  Booke  called  Shakespeare's 

sonnetteSy  vjd.'* 

By  this  it  appears  that  the  entry  for  his  copy- 
right was  made  and  paid  for  "by  the  hands  of 
Master  Wilson  and  Master  Lownes,  Warden." 
History  is  silent  as  to  who  they  were,  or  at  whose 
request  they  made  the  entry.     No  writer  has  been 


m  THE  SONITETS.  147 

able  to  solve  the  mystery  attending  the  publica- 
tion of  the  Sonnets.  The  prevailing  opinion  is, 
that  they  were  surreptitiously  obtained  and  pub- 
lished without  authority.  This  is  hardly  proba- 
ble. If  these  interpretations  are  correct,  Bacon 
contrived  the  plan  for  their  publication,  and 
found  in  Thomas  Thorpe  a  man  of  his  own  crea- 
tion, the  two  initials  (T.  T.)  signifying  The  Truth 
placed  at  the  close  of  his  enigmatical  dedication. 


Sonnet  83. 
I  never  saw  that  You  did  painting  need, 
And  therefore  to  Your  fair  no  painting  set; 
I  found,  or  thought  I  found,  You  did  exceed 
The  barren  tender  of  a  poet's  debt; 
And  therefore  have  I  slept  in  Your  report, 
That  You  Yourself,  being  extant,  well  might  show 
How  far  a  modern  quiil  doth  come  too  short, 
Speaking  of  worth,  what  worth  in  You  doth  grow. 
This  silence,  for  My  sin  You  did  impute. 
Which  shall  be  most  my  glory,  being  dumb; 
For  I  impair  not  beauty,  being  mute. 
When  others  would  give  life  and  bring  a  tomb. 
There  lives  more  life  in  one  of  Your  fair  eyea 
Than  both  Your  poets  can  in  praise  devise. 

In  this  stanza  he  gives  his  reasons  for  not  in- 
cluding Beauty  in  the  dedication.  He  saw  no 
reason  for  praising  him,  because  all  effort  to  do  so 
would  be  so  greatly  excelled  by  Beauty  himself, 
that  the  praise  would  be  ''barren'*  and  meaning- 
less. He  had  not  done  it,  because  Beauty  of  him- 
self and  in  delineation  would  demonstrate  by  his 


148  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

presence  how  impossible  it  would  be  for  any 
writer  to  do  justice  to  his  merits,  and  speak  of  him 
as  he  is,  or  as  he  will  be  appreciated  by  his  con- 
stant growth.  It  has  been  imputed  to  him  by 
Beauty,  in  the  writings  of  others,  that  it  was 
wrong  to  publish  his  poem  without  an  intelligible 
dedication,  but  he  was  glad  he  had  not  written 
one,  as  by  being  silent  he  had  not  impaired  Beauty, 
while  others,  who  expected  great  benefit  from  their 
dedications,  had  effectually  ruined  their  works 
by  them.  There  was  more  "life"  (more  to  give 
Beauty  perpetuity)  in  one  of  Your  delineations 
than  any  praise  that  both  he  and  his  successor 
could  possibly  "devise." 


Sonnet  84. 
Who  is  it  that  says  most  ?  which  can  say  more 
Than  this  rich  praise,  that  You  alone  are  You  ? 
In  whose  confine  immured  is  the  store 
Which  should  example  where  Your  equal  grew. 
Lean  penury  within  that  pen  doth  dwell 
That  to  his  subject  lends  not  some  small  glory; 
But  he  that  writes  of  You,  if  he  can  tell 
That  You  are  You,  so  dignifies  his  story. 
Let  him  but  copy  what  in  You  is  writ. 
Not  making  worse  what  nature  made  so  clear, 
And  such  a  counterpart  shall  fame  his  wit, 
Making  his  style  admired  everywhere. 

You  to  Your  beauteous  blessings  add  a  curse, 

Being  fond  on  praise,  which  makes  Your  praises  worse. 

In  this  stanza  he  enlarges  upon  the  merits  of 
Beauty  when  considered  by  himself.     How  is  it 


TN  THE  SONNETS.  149 

possible  to  exceed  the  praise  of  a  thing  which  is 
commended  to  all  your  faculties  by  its  beauty.  To 
feel  that  it  is  beautiful,  and  call  it  so,  is  the  utmost 
limit  of  praise.  It  contains  in  itself  an  example 
for  all.  He  is  a  poor  writer,  who,  however  he 
borrows  from  others,  imparts  no  interest  from  his 
own  thoughts  to  his  subject.  But  if  he  writes  to 
illustrate  anything  beautiful,  and  it  is  recognized 
in  that  sense,  his  story  needs  no  other  praise.  Let 
him  follow  nature  in  his  delineation,  and  his  work 
will  be  *^ admired  everywhere."  Beauty  which 
seeks  praise  outside  of  itself,  deprives  its  owu  in- 
trinsic merit  of  full  appreciation. 


Sonnet  85. 
My  tongue-tied  Muse  in  manners  holds  her  still, 
While  comments  of  your  praise,  richly  compil'd, 
Reserve  their  character  with  golden  quill 
And  precious  phrase  by  all  the  Muses  fil'd. 
I  think  good  thoughts,  whilst  others  write  good  worda^ 
And,  like  unletter'd  clerk,  still  cry  **  Amen" 
To  every  hymn  that  able  spirit  affords 
In  polish'd  form  of  well-refined  pen. 
Hearing  You  prais'd,  I  say,  **  'T  is  so,  'tis  true, 
And  to  the  most  of  praise  add  something  more; 
But  that  is  in  My  thought,  whose  love  to  You, 
Though  words  come  hindmost,  holds  his  rank  before. 
Then  others  for  the  breath  of  words  respect. 
Me  for  My  dumb  thoughts,  speaking  in  effect. 

In  this  stanza  he  agrees  in  thought  with  those 
who  add  praise  to  beauty  in  their  poems,  but 
writes  nothing  in  his  praise  himself.     His  muse  is 


150  BACON  AND  BHAKBSPEARE 

quiet  in  that  respect,  because  it  would  be  in  direct 
violation  of  his  views  already  expressed,  to  write 
in  praise  of  a  subject  which  needed  no  praise;  in 
other  words,  it  would  be  superfluous  "to  gild  re- 
fined gold  and  paint  the  lily."  All  the  other  poets 
are  devoting  their  best  efforts  to  this  purpose.  He 
thinks  as  highly  of  beauty  as  they  who  write  in 
his  praise,  he  assents  to  all  that  his  accomplished 
successor  may  say  of  Beauty  by  a  casual  remark 
of  approval.  To  this,  however,  in  his  thought  he 
adds  a  higher  adoration,  which  is  embodied  in 
thought  rather  than  words.  If  those  who  write 
are  to  be  respected  for  their  eulogies  of  beauty,  he 
claims  equal  honor  for  the  creation  he  has  given 
her  in  thoughts,  which  is  more  effective. 

Sonnet  86. 
Was  it  the  proud  full  sail  of  his  great  verse, 
Bound  for  the  prize  of  all  too  precious  You, 
That  did  My  ripe  thoughts  in  My  brain  inhearse, 
Making  their  tomb  the  womb  wherein  they  grew  f 
"Was  it  his  spirit,  by  spirits  taught  to  write 
Above  a  mortal  pitch,  that  struck  Me  dead? 
No,  neither  He,  nor  His  compeers  by  night, 
Giving  Him  aid.  My  verse  astonished. 
He,  nor  that  affable  familiar  ghost 
"Which  nightly  gulls  Him  with  intelligence, 
As  victors  of  My  silence  cannot  boast; 
I  was  not  sick  of  any  fear  from  thence: 
But  when  Your  countenance  fill'd  up  his  line. 
Then  lack'd  I  matter;  that  enfeebled  Mine. 

In  this  stanza  he  tells  the  reason  why  he  has 
ceased  to  continue  writing  for  the  present.    Was 


IN  TITS  SONXETS.  151 

it  the  ambitious  character  of  the  poetry  of  his  suc- 
cessor, or  tlie  pursuit  and  capture  of  Beauty,  which 
was  its  object,  that  caused  him  to  suppress  the 
utterance  of  thoughts  he  had  already  formed? 
Was  it  the  spiritual  nature  of  his  poesy,  which 
"above  a  mortal  pitch"  exceeded  all  ordinary 
powers  of  comprehension  that  silenced  him?  No, 
neither  that,  nor  the  assistance  which  he  nightly 
received  from  others,  depreciated  his  own  verses. 
Nor  did  the  amiable,  good-natured  interloper  who 
cheated  them  with  'intelligence"  have  any  influ- 
ence in  silencing  him.  What,  then,  was  it?  It 
was  that  by  giving  him  surreptitious  assistance  he 
saw  his  own  poetry  in  another's  work.  That  de- 
prived him  of  material  for  his  labors,  and  rendered 
him  powerless  to  pursue  them.  It  was  the  "coun- 
tenance" (the  real  beauty  of  his  own  thoughts), 
not  the  beauty  of  words,  which  made  him  suspend 
work. 

This  poet,  who  for  some  unexplained  reason  he 
treats  as  his  successor,  may  have  been  Daniel, 
Marlow,  Peele,  or  Chapman.  Next  to  Shakespeare, 
they  were  regarded  as  the  best  poets  and  play- 
wrights of  the  period.  Instigated  by  the  cordial 
welcome  with  which  the  dramas  purporting  to  be 
Shakespeare's  were  received  by  the  public,  they ,  as  is 
intimated  in  a  former  stanza,  attempted  to  imitate 
them.  It  is  probably  not  saying  too  much  for 
Bacon,  to  attribute  to  the  influence  of  his  dramas 
the  great  change  which  at  this  time  occurred  in 


152  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

dramatic  composition.  New  subjects  were  chosen, 
and  an  entirely  new  face  put  upon  the  forms  of 
representation.  If  Bacon  had  not  written,  the 
dramas  of  Marlow  and  Peele  would  have  immortal- 
ized the  age,  so  great  and  admirable  were  their 
powers  of  poetic  delineation. 

I  think  that  one  of  the  four  above  named  was  at 
the  time  referred  to  in  the  stanza  engaged  in  writ- 
ing a  play  in  which  he  was  assisted  by  the  others, 
or  some  of  them.  Shakespeare,  whom  Robert 
Green  the  playwright  called  a  Johannes  Facto- 
tum, knew  and  informed  Bacon  of  it.  Ascertain- 
ing the  subject  and  drift  of  the  play  through 
Shakespeare,  Bacon  may  have  from  time  to  time, 
while  the  work  was  progressing,  plied  Shakespeare 
with  facts  and  occasional  descriptions  which 
Shakespeare,  as  the  "affable  familiar  ghost,"  and 
recognized  by  the  others  as  the  popular  playwright 
of  the  time,  communicated  to  them,  and  they  in- 
corporated them  into  the  play.  He  thus  "gull'd'* 
them  with  the  matter  supplied  by  Bacon.  And 
afterwards  when  the  play  appeared,  and  Bacon  saw 
and  heard  his  own  lines  repeated  in  it,  he  became 
disgusted,  and  concluded  that  he  would  cease  writ- 
ing at  once,  as  he  must  do  so  very  soon,  at  any 
rate,  if  he  succeeded  in  obtaining  the  position  of 
solicitor.  This  can  hardly  be  called  a  forced 
conclusion,  when  we  remember  that  for  purposes 
of  concealment,  it  was  as  necessary  that  Shake- 
speare should  be  favorably  known  and  appreciated 


7iV^  THE  SONNETS.  153 

among  his  associates  as  that  Bacon  should  be  by 
his  friends.  Shakespeare  had  been  accused  of 
plagiarism  as  early  as  1592  by  Green,  in  his 
''Groatesworth  of  Wit/*  who  in  an  address  to  Mar- 
low,  Lodge,  and  Peele,  written  on  his  death-bed, 
says,  in  allusion  to  Shakespeare;  — 

"There  is  an  upstart  crow  beautiful  with  our 
feathers,  that  with  his  tiger's  heart,  wrapt  in  a 
player's  hide,  supposes  he  is  as  well  able  to  bom- 
bast out  a  blank  verse  as  the  best  of  you,  and  be- 
ing an  absolute  Johannes  Factotum,  is  in  his  own 
conceit  the  only  Shake-scene  in  the  country.  0, 
that  I  might  entreat  your  rare  wits  to  be  employed 
in  more  profitable  courses;  and  let  those  apes  imi- 
tate your  past  excellence,  and  never  more  acquaint 
them  with  your  admired  inventions.'' 

Bacon  well  knew  that  Shakespeare's  authorship 
among  these  accomplished  writers  required  con- 
stant watchfulness  on  his  part  to  avoid  exposure, 
as  that  would  betray  him.  This  fear,  constantly 
before  him,  must  have  led  to  many  strange  de- 
vices, the  one  above  conjectured  probably,  among 
the  rest. 

The  motive  which  he  gives  of  "  lacking  matter  " 
would  have  little  weight  with  one  so  fruitful  in 
resources,  but  seeing  the  "  countenance  "  (his  own 
thoughts)  intermixed  with  those  of  his  successor, 
as  he  dubs  him,  he  might  well  take  alarm,  lest 
others,  observing  the  difference  in  the  style  of 
the   play,   should  stir   up    inquiry,  which  would 


154  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

cause  him  to  be  suspected.  When  he  was  assigned 
by  Queen  Elizabeth  as  one  of  the  counsel  to  con- 
duct the  inquiry  concerning  the  conduct  of  the 
Earl  of  Essex  in  Ireland,  and  told,  as  he  writes  in 
an  explanatory  letter  afterwards,  "  that  I  should  set 
forth  some  undutiful  carriage  of  my  lord  in  giving 
occasion  and  countenance  to  a  seditious  pamphlet, 
as  it  was  termed,  which  was  dedicated  unto  him, 
which  was  the  book  before  mentioned  of  King 
Henry  IV.  Whereupon  I  replied  to  that  allotment, 
and  said  to  their  lordships  that  it  was  an  old  mat- 
ter, and  had  no  manner  of  coherence  with  the  rest 
of  the  charge,  being  matters  of  Ireland;  and  there- 
fore that  I,  having  been  wronged  by  bruits  before, 
this  would  expose  me  to  them  more,  and  it  would 
be  said  that  I  gave  in  evidence  mine  own  tales.'' 
From  this  passage  it  is  apparent  that  he  had  been 
suspected  of  writing  the  play  of  Henry  IV.  How 
else  than  from  Shakespeare  would  he  have  been 
likely  to  know  of  the  nightly  meetings  of  these 
poets,  and  the  work  they  were  doing?  He  had  no 
personal  intercourse  with  them,  was  not  in  their 
secrets,  and  all  his  writings  for  the  theatre  were 
veiled  by  Shakespeare.  Yet  he  is  able  in  this 
history  to  give  the  whole  story,  and  to  mention  as 
an  "affable  familiar  ghost,"  one  who  "gulls  them 
with  intelligence"  (who  gives  them  as  of  him- 
self what  he  has  received  from  another).  Does  not 
this  mean  Shakespeare? 


m  THE  SONNETS.  155 

Sonnet  87. 
Farewell!  Thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possessing, 
And  like  enough  Thou  know'st  Thy  estimate: 
The  charter  of  Thy  worth  gives  Thee  releasing; 
My  bonds  in  Thee  are  all  determinate. 
For  how  do  I  hold  Thee  but  by  Thy  granting  ? 
And  for  that  riches  where  is  My  deserving  ? 
The  cause  of  this  fair  gift  in  Me  is  wanting, 
And  so  My  patent  back  again  is  swerving. 
Thyself  Thou  gav'st,  Thy  own  worth  then  not  knowing, 
Or  Me,  to  whom  Thou  gav'st  it,  else  mistaking; 
So  Thy  great  gift,  upon  misprision  growing, 
Comes  home  again,  on  better  judgment  making. 
Thus  have  I  had  Thee,  as  a  dream  doth  flatter, 
In  sleep  a  king,  but  waking  no  such  matter. 

The  farewell  in  this  stanza  means  that  his 
dramatic  labors  must  cease.  Thou  (Truth)  is 
now  so  much  sought  after  by  the  playwrights  that 
his  exclusive  use  of  him  is  gone.  In  the  use  which 
others  make  of  him,  it  is  very  probable  that  the 
labors  of  Thy  (Thought)  will  be  found  wanting. 
But  Thy  must  be  released  also,  for  he  has  no 
longer  use  for  him,  and  he  can  only  hold  him 
while  he  is  willing.  So  long  as  he  will  not  write 
dramas.  Thy  is  unnecessary, —  the  cause  or  object 
of  his  creation  no  longer  remains  with  him, — and 
so  the  "patent"  which  he  devised  for  weaving 
Thy  into  his  labors  has  ceased  to  interest  him. 
Thou  (Truth)  was  the  substance  of  Thy  (Thought). 
Thought,  when  awakened  in  him,  did  not  know 
his  power,  but  this  knowledge  came  to  him  after- 
wards, and  with   the   help   of  Thou  he  grew  by 


156  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

"  misprision ''  (concealed  truths  and  phrases). 
Now,  with  the  approval  of  his  own  judgment, 
Thy  returns  to  his  inert  condition.  While  he  re- 
mained with  him  he  made  him  proud  and  vain, 
ruled  him  as  a  king  when  he  had  no  other  work, 
but  now  a  greater  pursuit  was  before  him,  and 
Thy  was  bereft  of  his  attractions. 

The  "  patent,"  or  plan  of  composition  adopted 
by  Bacon,  has  been  already  explained.  The  dis- 
solution given  to  it  in  this  stanza,  and  the  motive 
assigned  for  it,  show  that  Bacon  had  the  fullest 
confidence  in  his  appointment  as  solicitor,  and 
would  never  occupy  his  time  again  in  writing 
dramas.  The  prize  he  had  toiled  for  was  almost 
within  his  grasp,  and  his  gloomy  period  of  seclu- 
sion nearly  over.  The  difficulties  and  obstruc- 
tions he  was  confident  would  be  overcome  by  his 
noble  young  friend,  the  Earl  of  Essex,  who  was 
giving  all  his  energy,  popularity,  and  powers  of 
persuasion  to  his  application.  The  story  of  those 
labors — of  the  opposing  forces;  of  the  delays;  of 
the  vacillating  conduct  of  Elizabeth;  of  the  dupli- 
city of  the  Cecils;  of  the  faithful  devotion  of  Es- 
sex; and  the  final  defeat  of  Bacon,  in  all  running 
through  seventeen  months  of  the  years  1594  and 
1595 — is  much  too  long  to  be  detailed  here.  There 
will  be  frequent  occasion  to  refer  to  the  effect  it 
produced  in  Bacon's  mind,  while  it  was  passing, 
in  the  consideration  given  to  future  Sormets. 


m  THE  SONNETS.  157 

Sonnet  88. 
When  Thou  shalt  be  dispos'd  to  set  Me  light, 
And  place  My  merit  in  the  eye  of  scorn, 
Upon  Thy  side  against  Myself  I  '11  fight, 
And  prove  Thee  virtuous,  though  Thou  art  foresworn. 
With  Mine  own  weakness,  being  best  acquainted, 
Upon  Thy  part  I  can  set  down  a  story 
Of  faults  conceal'd,  wherein  I  am  attainted, 
Tliat  Thou  in  losing  Me  shalt  win  much  glory: 
And  I  by  this  will  be  a  gainer  too; 
For  bending  all  My  loving  thoughts  on  Thee, 
The  injuries  that  to  Myself  I  do. 
Doing  Thee  vantage,  double-vantage  Me. 
Such  is  My  love,  to  Thee  I  so  belong. 
That  for  Thy  right  Myself  will  bear  all  wrong. 

If  it  should  so  happen  that  while  seeking  the 
appointment  of  solicitor-general,  any  charges 
should  be  arrayed  against  him  by  his  enemies  of 
a  personal  character,  for  the  purpose  of  depreciat- 
ing his  merits  and  defeating  him,  he  (Bacon  as  an 
individual)  will  defend  the  purity  and  virtue  of 
Thy, — the  thoughts  embodied  in  the  dramas, — 
by  fighting  against  Myself  (Bacon  as  author).  His 
object  will  be  to  mislead  his  opponents  and  prevent 
them  from  suspecting  that  he  had  been  a  writer 
for  the  theatre.  That  fact,  if  proved  against  him, 
would  not  only  defeat  him,  but  drive  him  into 
hopeless  obscurity.  How  would  he  prove  Thy's 
purity?  Knowing  his  own  weakness,  how  the 
dramas  were  composed,  and  what  means  he  had 
employed,  he  could  "  set  down  a  story  of  faults 
conceal'd"  of  which  he  was  guilty.  He  would 
show  that    the    dramas   were   a   compilation    of 


158  BACOy  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

truths,  derived  from  infinite  sources.  All  the 
great  writers  of  all  former  ages  had  contributed 
to  them.  They  had  grown,  as  he  says  in  the  pre- 
ceding stanza,  by  misprision,  "faults  concealed.'^ 
Thou  (Truth)  would  win  much  glory  by  such  a 
revelation,  because  it  would  show  that  Bacon 
alone  could  not  have  been  the  author,  but  that 
the  truth  displayed  was  the  product  of  ages.  By 
thus  exposing  his  patent,  ''bending  all  My  loving 
thoughts  on  Thee,''  which  of  course  would  be 
done  judiciously,  he  would  divert  attention  from 
himself,  and  be  a  gainer  also.  Every  injury  he 
did  to  "Myself"  (Bacon  as  author)  would  bene- 
fit Thee  (Thought),  and  prove  of  double  benefit 
to  Bacon  as  a  candidate.  Such  is  My  Love  (the 
dramas),  so  are  they  composed,  and  he  at  this 
time  is  so  absorbed  in  electioneering  schemes 
that  to  obtain  the  ofiice  "Myself"  (Bacon  as  the 
author)  "  will  bear  all  wrong."  In  other  words, 
he  will  by  all  possible  means  avoid  exposure  as 
the  author  of  the  dramas. 


Sonnet  89. 

Say  that  Thou  didst  forsake  Me  for  some  fault, 
And  I  will  comment  upon  that  offence; 
Speak  of  My  lameness,  and  I  straight  will  halt, 
Against  Thy  reasons  making  no  defence. 
Thou  canst  not,  love,  disgrace  Me  half  so  ill, 
To  set  a  form  upon  desired  change, 
As  1 11  Myself  disgrace:  knowing  Thy  will, 
I  will  acquaintance  strangle  and  look  strange, 


IN  THE  SONJSrETS.  159 

Be  absent  from  Thy  walks,  and  iu  My  tongue 
Thy  sweet  beloved  name  no  more  shall  dwell. 
Lest  I  (too  much  profane)  should  do  it  wrong, 
And  haply  of  our  old  acquaintance  tell. 
For  Thee  against  Myself  I  '11  vow  debate. 
For  I  must  ne'er  love  him  whom  Thou  dost  hate. 

Continuing  his  address  to  Thou  (Truth)  in  this 
stanza,  he  expresses  the  intention,  even  though 
errors  may  appear  in  the  dramas,  of  abandoning 
them  altogether  to  such  fate  as  may  be  accorded 
them  by  the  world.  *^  Say  that  Thou  didst  forsake 
Me  for  some  fault*'  (some  passage  or  passages  did 
not  contain  the  truth),  ''and  I  will  comment 
upon  that  offence  "  (he  will  consider  the  subject). 
*'  Speak  of  My  lameness,  and  I  straight  will  halt, 
against  Thy  reasons  making  no  defence"  (if  the 
fault  is  in  the  metre,  he  will  have  no  argument 
with  Thou  about  it).  "  Thou  canst  not,  love,  dis- 
grace Me  half  so  ill,  to  set  a  form  upon  desired 
change,  as  I'll  Myself  disgrace"  (any  discovery  of 
error  which  may  require  that  a  new  form  should 
be  set  up,  or  new  edition  printed  to  correct  or 
change  it,  he  will  not  regard).  "  Knowing  Thy 
will"  (knowing  his  own  will  to  avoid  exposure), 
"I  will  acquaintance  strangle  and  look  strange, 
be  absent  from  Thy  walks,  and  in  My  tongue  Thy 
sweet  beloved  name  no  more  shall  dwell"  (he  will 
think  no  more  on  the  subject,  it  shall  be  forgot- 
ten; he  will  never  recall  it,  nor  even  mention  it), 
"  lest  I  (too  much  profane)  should  do  it  wrong, 
and  haply  of  our  old  acquaintance  tell"  (lest  he 


IGO  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

should  be  tempted  to  denounce  it,  or  worse  even, 
accidentally  reveal  himself  as  the  author.  For 
these  reasons  he  would  offer  no  defence  for  him- 
self, or  for  his  erroneous  composition). 


Sonnet  90. 

Then  hate  Me  when  Thou  wilt,  —  if  ever,  now; 

Now,  while  the  world  is  bent  My  deeds  to  cross, 

Join  with  the  spite  of  fortune,  make  Me  bow, 

And  do  not  tlrop  in  for  an  after-loss. 

Ah,  do  not,  when  My  heart  hath  scap'd  this  sorrow, 

Come  in  the  rearward  of  a  eonquer'd  woe; 

Give  not  a  windy  night  a  rainy  morrow, 

To  linger  out  a  purpos'd  overthrow. 

If  Thou  wilt  leave  Me,  do  not  leave  Me  last, 

When  other  petty  griefs  have  done  their  spite. 

But  in  the  onset  come;  so  shall  I  taste 

At  first  the  very  worst  of  fortune's  might. 
And  other  strains  of  woe,  which  now  seem  woe, 
Compar'd  with  loss  of  Thee  will  not  seem  so. 

Pursuing  the  thread  of  allegory  in  this  stanza, 
as  if  conscious  of  deserving  the  hatred  of  Truth 
for  the  resolution  he  has  formed  to  neglect  and 
abandon  it,  he  invites  Thou  to  his  revenge.  ''Then 
hate  Mo  when  Thou  wilt, — if  ever,  now;  now,  while 
the  world  is  bent  My  deeds  to  cross.*'  At  this  time 
Bacon  was  invoking  aid  from  every  quarter  in 
support  of  his  pretensions  to  the  office  of  solicitor- 
general.  His  life  had  been  so  correct,  so  studious, 
so  isolated,  that  nothing  stronger  could  be  urged 
against  him  than  that  he  was  not  fitted  by  habits 
or  pursuits  for  the  position,  and  was  extravagant 


m  THE  SONNETS.  IGi 

in  his  expenses.  These  objections  in  themselves 
would  probably,  have  been  insufficient  in  the  eyes  of 
the  queen,  were  there  not  others  whispered  in  her 
ears  by  some  secret  enemy,  tending  to  shake  her 
faith  in  his  competenc}^  It  was  during  this  strug- 
gle that,  in  reply  to  one  of  the  urgent  solicitations 
of  Essex  in  behalf  of  the  appointment,  she  said: 
*' Bacon  had  great  wit  and  much  learning,  but  that 
in  the  law  he  could  show  to  the  uttermost  of  his 
knowledge,  and  was  not  deep/'  Montagu  says: 
''Essex  was  convinced  that  Bacon's  enemy  was  the 
Lord-Keeper  Puckering."  Macaulay  thinks  "that 
Bacon  himself  attributed  his  defeat  to  his  relations, 
Lord  Burleigh  and  his  son  Sir  Robert  Cecil."  H© 
quotes  the  following  remarkable  passage  from  a 
letter  written  by  Bacon  to  Villiers  many  years 
afterwards:  "  Countenance,  encourage,  and  ad- 
vance able  men  in  all  kinds,  degrees,  and  profes- 
sions. For  in  the  time  of  the  Cecils,  the  father 
and  son,  able  men  were  of  design  and  of  purpose 
suppressed."  While  engaged  in  the  effort  to  re- 
sist the  effect  of  these  and  similar  influences  upon 
the  mind  of  the  queen,  his  fear  of  betrayal  as  a 
writer  of  plays  must  have  haunted  him  like  a 
spectre,  to  have  revived  so  many  years  afterwards, 
such  a  vivid  memory  of  it  as  he  gives  in  this  poem. 
In  this  spirit  he  invokes  the  hatred  of  Thou  at 
that  time,  which  is  equivalent  to  saying  tl&at  he 
wished  all  possible  evidence  of  his  dramas  might 
bo  removed  entirely  from  public  observation. 
11 


162  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

They  were  created  of  Thou  (Truth),  and  his  hatred 
would  conceal,  while  his  love  would  expose  him. 
"Join  with  the  spite  of  fortune,  make  me  bow" 
(as  fortune  was  hostile  to  him,  so  mayst  Thou  be, 
that  he  may  not  hold  him  in  fear;  he  will  thank 
him  for  the  favor).  "Ah,  do  not,  when  my  heart 
hath  scaped  this  sorrow,  come  in  the  rearward  of 
a  conquered  woe ''  (do  not  reveal  yourself  after  he 
has  overcome  other  obstacles).  "Give  not  a  windy 
night  a  rainy  morrow,  to  linger  out  a  purpos'd 
overthrow"  (do  not  follow  up  the  darkness  and 
noise  which  now  envelops  him  with  thy  storm 
and  clouds,  to  aid  those  who  are  working  for  his 
defeat).  "  If  Thou  wilt  leave  Me,  do  not  leave  Me 
last,  when  other  petty  griefs  have  done  their  spite" 
(let  not  this  exposure  of  his  authorship  be  made 
wiien  other  and  weaker  impediments  are  removed). 
"But  in  the  onset  come"  (come  as  an  enemy  at 
first,  and  you  will  not  be  found  out).  "So  shall  I 
taste  at  first  the  very  worst  of  fortune's  might" 
(then  with  nothing  to  fear  from  you,  all  ray  fear 
will  be  of  the  calumnies  of  the  day).  "And  other 
strains  of  woe,  which  now  seem  woe,  comparM  with 
loss  of  Thee  will  not  seem  so  "  (they  will  not  alarm 
him;  the  only  fear  he  has  is  this  exposure  as  a 
playwright,  all  other  opposition  is  nothing  in 
comparison).  He  was  certain  that  he  would  be 
appointed  if  his  labors  for  the  stage  could  be  kept 
in  concealment. 


IN  THE  SOKXETS.  163 

Sonnet  91. 
Some  glory  in  their  birth,  some  in  their  skill, 
Some  in  their  wealth,  some  in  their  body's  force, 
Some  in  their  garments,  though  new-fangled  ill, 
Some  in  their  hawks  and  hounds,  some  in  their  horse; 
And  every  humour  hath  his  adjunct  pleasure, 
Wherein  it  finds  a  joy  above  the  rest: 
But  these  particulars  are  not  My  measure; 
All  these  I  better  in  one  general  best. 
Thy  love  is  better  than  high  birth  to  Me, 
Richer  than  wealth,  prouder  than  garments'  cost, 
Of  more  delight  than  hawks  or  horses  be; 
And  having  Thee,  of  all  men's  pride  I  boast: 
Wretched  in  this  alone,  that  Thou  mayst  take 
All  this  away  and  Me  most  wretched  make. 

He  names  in  this  stanza,  as  the  highest  enjoy- 
ment and  greatest  pride  of  his  life,  the  time  that 
he  has  spent  in  the  creation  of  his  dramas.  There 
is  for  every  one  some  particular  pleasure  para- 
mount to  all  others;  as  for  some  their  birth,  others 
their  skill.  Some  worship  wealth,  some  strength. 
Fine  garments,  hawks,  hounds,  and  horses  have 
each  their  special  admirers,  who  take  their  great- 
est pleasure  in  them.  He  has  no  choice  among 
these,  they  are  alike  agreeable;  but  that  which  he 
prizes  above  them  all  is  ''Thy  love''  (the  delight 
he  has  experienced  in  weaving  his  own  true 
thought,  and  the  truths  gathered  from  the  past, 
into  the  immortal  dramas).  In  them,  and  in  the 
truths  of  which  they  are  composed,  he  has  the 
pride  of  all  men.  It  is  depicted  in  them,  and  it 
saddens  him  when  he  thinks  that  in  the  attempts 


164  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

of  others  to  illustrate  truth,  all  its  beauty  may  be 
destroyed. 

Sonnet  92.   • 
But  do  Thy  worst  to  steal  Thyself  away. 
For  term  of  life  Thou  art  assured  Mine, 
And  life  no  longer  than  Thy  love  will  stay, 
For  it  depends  upon  that  love  of  Thine. 
Then  need  I  not  to  fear  the  worst  of  wrongs. 
When  in  the  least  of  them  My  life  hath  end. 
I  see  a  better  state  to  Me  belongs 
Than  that  which  on  Thy  humour  doth  depend; 
Thou  canst  not  vex  Me  with  inconstant  mind. 
Since  that  My  life  on  Thy  revolt  doth  lie- 
O,  what  a  happy  title  do  I  find, 
Happy  to  have  Thy  love,  happy  to  die! 

But  what 's  so  blessed-fair  that  fears  no  blot  ? 

Thou  mayst  be  false,  and  yet  1  know  it  not. 

In  this  stanza  he  expresses  the  conviction  that 
Thou  (Truth)  will  be  with  him  during  life.  "But 
do  Thy  worst  to  steal  Thyself  away"  (his  delin- 
eated thoughts),  "for  term  of  life  Thou  art  assured 
Mine"  (Thou  (Truth)  will  be  with  him  while  he 
lives),  "and  life  no  longer  than  Thy  love  will 
stay,  for  it  depends  upon  that  love  of  Thine"  (all 
knowledge  of  him  and  his  dramatic  labors  (his 
life)  ceases  (dies)  when  he  stops  writing  (Thou's 
love  of  Thy  ends);  as  from  that  moment  they 
will  be  recognized  as  the  work  of  Shakespeare). 
"Then  need  I  not  to  fear  the  worst  of  wrongs*' 
(which  he  declares  to  be  the  disappearance  of 
Thy),  "when  in  the  least  of  them  My  life  hath 
end"  (since  his  name  is  gone  from  the  moment 


7.Y  THE  SONNETS,  165 

he  ceases  to  write).  "I  see  a  better  state  to  me  be- 
longs'' (he  is  sure  of  the  appointment  as  solicitor), 
"than  that  which  on  Thy  humour  doth  depend" 
(superior  in  rank  and  position  to  writing).  " Thou 
canst  not  vex  Me  with  inconstant  mind,  since  that 
My  life  on  Thy  revolt  doth  lie"  (he  cannot  be 
blamed  for  preferring  this  office  to  writing,  as 
the  disclosure  of  that  would  ruin  him).  He  will 
gain  a  title  (be  ennobled)  by  it,  retain  possession 
of  Thou  (Truth),  and  be  happy  in  a  cessation 
of  labor  as  a  writer.  Better  than  all  Thy  (his 
thoughts)  being  gone,  there  may  be  some  un- 
truths in  his  writings  which  cannot  be  discov- 
ered. 

Sonnet  93. 
So  shall  I  live,  supposing  Thou  art  true, 
Like  a  deceived  husband;  so  love's  face 
May  still  seem  love  to  Me,  though  alter'd  new, 
Thy  looks  with  Me,  Thy  heart  in  other  place; 
For  there  can  live  no  hatred  in  Thine  eye, 
Therefore  in  that  I  cannot  know  Thy  change. 
In  many's  looks  the  false  heart's  history 
Is  writ  in  moods  and  frowns  and  wrinkles  strange. 
But  heaven  in  Thy  creation  did  decree 
That  in  Thy  face  sweet  love  should  ever  dwell; 
Wliate'er  Thy  thoughts  or  Thy  heart's  workings  be, 
Thy  looks  should  nothing  thence  but  sweetness  tell. 
How  like  Eve's  apple  doth  Thy  beauty  grow, 
If  Thy  sweet  virtue  answer  not  Thy  show  I 

He  tells  in  this  stanza  that  Truth  will  have  the 
same  attraction  for  him  when  his  pursuit  has 
changed  as  it  had  before.     Ignorant  of  any  fal- 


166  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

sity  in  Thou  (Tnith),  as  he  says  in  the  previous 
stanza,  he  will  live  supposing  him  to  be  true. 
His  new  position  will  seemingly,  at  least,  have 
the  same  attraction  for  him,  as,  like  a  husband 
who  knowing  no  wrong  in  his  wife  confides  in  her 
honesty,  so  he,  seeing  nothing  in  the  office  to  pre- 
vent, will  accept  it,  and  find  in  the  discharge  of  its 
duties  much  pleasure.  In  appearance  Truth  will 
be  the  same,  though  he  may  not  display  it  in  the 
same  form.  It  is  always  the  same,  without  change. 
There  are  many  writers  who  in  attempting  its  de- 
lination  have  strangely  misconceived  it.  It  was 
born  of  heaven  pure  and  beautiful,  and  its  ap- 
pearance, whatever  form  it  may  assume,  is  full  of 
beauty.  If  its  influence  is  not  equal  to  its  appear- 
ance, it,  like  "Eve's  apple,"  tempts  but  to  destroy. 


Sonnet  94. 

They  that  have  power  to  hurt  and  will  do  none^ 
That  do  not  do  the  thing  they  most  do  show, 
Who,  moving  others,  are  themselves  as  stone. 
Unmoved,  cold,  and  to  temptation  slow, 
They  rightly  do  inherit  heaven's  graces, 
And  husband  nature's  riches  from  expense; 
They  are  the  lords  and  owners  of  their  faces. 
Others  but  stewards  of  their  excellence. 
The  summer's  flower  is  to  the  summer  sweet, 
Though  to  itself  it  only  live  and  die. 
But  if  that  flower  with  base  infection  meet. 
The  basest  weed  outbraves  its  dignity: 

For  sweetest  things  turn  sourest  by  their  deeds: 
Lilies  that  fester  smell  far  worse  than  weeds. 


m  THE  SONNETS.  1G7 

He  describes  a  class  of  contemporary  authors, 
whose  writings  are  cold,  impassive,  and  destitute 
of  merit  or  influence.  They  possess  ability,  but 
do  not  display  it;  make  great  pretensions,  but  do 
not  establish  them;  impart  life  to  their  persona- 
tions, but  are  unfeeling  themselves.  Their  finical 
sense  of  propriety  overcomes  their  vigor  of  expres- 
sion, and  shields  them  from  all  temptation  to  de- 
lineate passion  or  character.  They  possess  these 
virtues  by  inheritance,  not  labor.  They  have  com- 
plete control  of  themselves,  while  others  who  write 
to  some  purpose  are  but  "stewards  of  their  excel- 
lence" (the  authors  who  gather  up,  use,  and  dis- 
play effectively  those  qualities  of  life  and  character 
that  constitute  the  true  merit  of  all  composition, 
and  which  never  enter  into  the  conceptions  of 
these  fastidious  writers).  They,  like  a  summer 
flower,  sweet  while  the  summer  lasts,  live  and  die 
to  themselves.  If  they  attempt  more  than  they 
can  do,  their  writings,  like  that  flower  whose  fra- 
grance is  changed  by  infection  to  a  fetid  odor,  and 
less  attractive  than  the  ugliest  weed,  are  unhealthy 
and  demoralizing.  As  the  odor  of  the  lily  in  its 
decay  is  more  ofi'ensive  than  the  odor  of  the  weed, 
so  these  writings,  how  beautiful  soever  they  may 
seem,  if  tainted  with  falsehood,  are  worse  in  their 
efi*ects  than  the  unreliable  works  of  scrubs  and 

hacks. 

Sonnet  95. 

How  sweet  and  lovely  dost  Tlioii  make  the  shame 
Which,  like  a  canker  in  the  fragrant  rose, 


168  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEAHE 

Doth  spot  the  beauty  of  Thy  budding  name  ! 
O,  in  what  sweets  dost  Thou  Thy  sins  enclose  ! 
That  tongue  that  tells  the  gtorj'  of  Thy  days. 
Making  lascivious  comments  on  Thy  sport. 
Cannot  dispraise  but  in  a  kind  of  praise; 
Naming  xhy.name  blesses  an  ill  report. 
O,  what  a  mansion  have  those  vices  got 
Which  for  their  habitation  cliose  out  Thee, 
Where  beauty's  veil  doth  cover  every  blot, 
And  all  things  turn  to  fair  that  eyes  can  seo  ! 

Take  heed,  dear  heart,  of  this  large  privilege; 

The  hardest  knife  ill-us'd  doth  lose  his  edge. 

lu  this  stanza  he  tells  us  how  effectually  he  has 
employed  Truth  in  the  delineation  of  error.  In 
his  dramas  Truth  has  made  error  charming,  by 
clothing  the  sins  he  depicted  in  attractive  words. 
His  lascivious  scenes  have  been  so  naturally  un- 
folded, that  censure  for  their  immoralities  was 
disarmed  by  the  admiration  evoked  by  their 
beauty.  The  name  of  any  of  his  characters  was 
an  excuse  with  the  public  for  any  sin  it  specially 
portrayed.  Everything  he  has  written  has  received 
the  fullest  public  approval.  This  wonderful  power 
is  to  be  used  with  care,  as  by  improper  usage  it 
will  lose  its  effect. 

Sonnet  96. 
Some  say  Thy  fault  is  youth,  Bome  wantonness; 
Some  say  Thy  grace  is  youth  and  gentle  sport: 
Both  grace  and  faults  are  lov'd  of  more  and  less; 
ihou  mak'st  faults  graces  that  to  Thee  resort. 
As  on  the  finger  of  a  throned  queen 
The  basest  jewel  will  be  well  esteem'd, 
So  are  those  errors  that  in  Thee  are  seen 
To  trucha  translated,  and  for  true  things  deem'd. 


m  THE  Bonnets.  169 

How  many  lambs  might  the  stern  wolf  betray. 
If  like  a  lamb  he  could  his  looks  translate  ! 
How  many  gazers  mightst  Thou  lead  away, 
If  Thou  wouldst  use  the  strength  of  all  Thy  state  I 
But  do  not  so;  I  love  Thee  in  such  sort, 
As,  Thou  being  Mine,  Mine  is  Thy  good  report. 

In  this  stanza  he  tells  of  the  favorable  welcome 
his  dramas  have  received.  Fault  has  been  found 
by  some  with  the  licentious  scenes  he  has  written, 
but  others  have  excused  them  as  the  product  of 
y^uth  and  gayety.  In  both  forms  they  have  their 
admirers.  He  has  been  successful  in  converting 
faults  into  graces.  As  the  worthless  jewel  on  the 
finger  of  a  powerful  queen  would  be  highly  es- 
teemed, so  are  the  errors  in  his  dramas,  in  the 
garb  of  Truth,  received  and  adopted  by  the  public 
as  truth  indeed.  If  the  wolf  could  transform  him- 
self into  the  appearance  of  a  lamb,  it  would  add 
fearfully  to  his  facilities  for  depredation.  So  if 
Thou  (Truth)  would  give  'Hhe  strength  of  all  Thy 
state "  (the  name  of  Francis  Bacon,  instead  of 
AVilliam  Shakespeare,  as  the  author  of  the  dramas), 
he  would  add  correspondingly  to  the  number  of  his 
admirers.  But  this  he  must  not  do.  His  (Bacon's) 
love  for  "Thee**  (his  thoughts)  is  of  a  different 
sort.  Thou  (Truth)  belongs  to  him  as  an  author, 
and  as  the  author  (Shakespeare)  only  can  he  make 
report  of  his  thoughts. 

SoNNEr  97. 
How  like  a  winter  hath  My  absence  been 
From  Thee,  the  pleasure  of  the  lleeting  year  1 


.170  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

What  freezings  have  I  felt,  what  dark  days  seen. 
What  old  December's  bareness  everywhere  ! 
And  yet  this  time  remov'd  was  summer's  time, 
The  teeming  autumn,  big  with  rich  increase. 
Bearing  the  wanton  burthen  of  the  prime. 
Like  widow'd  wombs  after  their  lord's  decease: 
Yet  this  abundant  issue  seem'd  to  me 
But  hope  of  orphans  and  uufather'd  fruit, 
For  summer  and  his  pleasures  wait  on  Thee, 
And,  Thou  away,  the  very  birds  are  mute; 
Or,  if  they  sing,  't  is  with  so  dull  a  cheer 
That  leaves  look  pale,  dreading  the  winter's  near. 

He  makes  observations  in  this  stanza  upon  the 
change  in  his  life  since  he  quit  writing,  and  the 
increase  and  character  of  the  poetry  of  others. 

Since  he  left  writing  time  has  passed  heavily. 
It  has  been  like  winter.  He  has  been  treated  with 
coldness  by  friends,  and  at  times  driven  almost  to 
despair;  has  had  no  congenial  occupation,  and 
his  surroundings  imparted  a  gloom  to  his  mind, 
which  might  be  fitly  compared  to  the  nakedness 
of  a  December  landscape.  Yet  it  was  summer 
time  and  succeeded  by  a  "teeming  autumn." 
Poets  had  been  busy,  and  greatly  increased  their 
labors.  The  world  around  him  was  full  of  poesy, 
but  much  of  it  was  anonymous,  and  some  uu- 
father'd (the  work  of  fugitive  writers).  It  had  no 
charm  for  him.  The  time  was  desolate,  which  his 
old  pursuit  would  have  made  delightful.  Thou 
(Truth)  was  not  with  him,  and  he  could  not  w^rite. 
When  he  attempted  to  do  so,  his  writings  were 
dull,  cold,  and  cheerless. 


71V  THE  SONNETS.  17l 

Sonnet  98. 
Fi'om  You  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring, 
When  proud-pied  April  dress'd  in  all  his  trim 
Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  everything, 
That  heavy  Saturn  laugh'd  and  leap'd  with  him. 
Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds  nor  the  sweet  smell 
Of  different  flowers  in  odour  and  in  hue, 
Could  make  Me  any  summer's  story  tell. 
Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them  where  they  grewj 
Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lily's  white, 
Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  rose: 
They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  of  delight, 
Drawn  after  You,  You  pattern  of  all  those. 
Yet  seem'd  it  winter  still,  and.  You  away, 
As  with  Yom*  shadow  I  with  these  did  play. 

He  tells  in  this  stanza  of  the  effect  which  the 
abandonment  of  Beauty  has  had  upon  his  life. 

The  inspiration  of  Beauty,  which,  before  he 
sought  the  appointment  of  solicitor,  was  so  con- 
stant and  delightful,  though  seemingly  as  inviting 
as  ever,  had  no  charm  for  him.  Beauty's  sur- 
roundings were  fresh  and  spring-like.  The  same 
spirit  animated  him  with  youth;  even  the  rest  of 
Saturn  was  broken,  and  his  mirth  and  jollity 
aroused.  But  neither  the  songs  of  birds  nor  the 
perfume  of  flowers  could  arouse  in  him  the  least 
ambition  or  desire  to  re-engage  in  writing.  He 
had  no  story  to  tell,  and  was  entirely  indifferent 
to  the  difiPerent  phases  of  beauty,  which  had  once 
so  charmed  him.  They  seemed  but  pleasant  ob- 
jects to  the  sight, — forms  in  outline  of  his  former 
joys.  He  felt  that  Beauty  had  forsaken  him,  and 
left  only  winter  and  gloom  in  his  place. 


172  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

The  inference  from  this  stanza,  that  while  he  is 
by  preoccupation  was  prevented  from  giving  any- 
time to  dramatic  labor,  other  authors  of  the  time 
were  more  busily  employed  than  ever.  He  could 
see  nothing  in  the  beauty  of  their  productions  that 
was  not  imitative  of  his  own.  They  did  not  attain 
to  a  full  delineation  of  beauty  as  he  had  done,  in 
particulars  which  he  would  proceed  to  illustrate  in 
the  next  stanza. 

Sonnet  99. 
The  forward  violet  thus  did  I  chide: 

Sweet  thief,  whence  didst  thou  steal  Thy  sweet  that  smells. 
If  not  from  My  Love's  breath  ?    The  purple  pride 
Which  on  Thy  soft  cheek  for  complexion  dwells 
In  My  Love's  veins  Thou  hast  too  grossly  dyed. 
The  lily  I  condemned  for  Tliy  hand, 
And  buds  of  marjoram  had  stolen  Thy  hair; 
The  roses  fearfully  on  thorns  did  stand, 
One  blushing  shame,  another  white  despair; 
A  third,  nor  red  nor  white,  had  stolen  of  both. 
And  to  this  robbery  had  annex'd  Thy  breath; 
But,  for  his  theft,  in  pride  of  all  his  growth 
A  vengeful  canker  eat  him  up  to  death. 
More  flowers  I  noted,  yet  I  none  could  see 
But  sweet  or  colour  it  had  stolen  from  Thee. 

He  criticises  the  writings  of  contemporaries,  and 
charges  them  with  plagiarism. 

One  author,  more  conspicuous  than  the  others, 
whom  he  calls  the  "  forward  violet,"  he  charges 
with  stealing  so  much  of  the  truth  as  has  given  him 
reputation  from  the  "  breath  "  or  fame  of  '*  My 
Love's  breath''    (his   own  works).     He  has  also 


7iV^  THE  SON27ETS.  173 

abused  nature  by  the  heightened  color  he  has  given 
to  his  characters, — comparing  the  hand  to  a  **  lily,'* 
and  the  hair  to  "buds  of  marjoram."  His  com- 
parisons of  shame  and  despair — roses  standing  on 
bushes  bent  with  thorns — was  false  to  nature,  and 
the  false  mixing  in  coloring  was  so  offensive,  that 
it  carried  its  own  elements  of  decay  with  it.  He 
could  see  nothing  in  the  merit  or  beauty  of  other 
writers  that  had  not  been  stolen  from  "Thee" 
(his  thoughts). 

Sonnet  100. 
Where  art  Thou,  Muse,  that  Thou  forget'st  so  long 
To  speak  of  that  which  gives  Thee  all  Thy  might? 
Spend'st  Thou  Thy  fury  on  some  worthless -song, 
Dark'niug  Thy  power  to  lend  base  subjects  light  ? 
Return,  forgetful  Muse,  and  straight  redeem 
In  gentle  numbers  time  so  idly  spent; 
Sing  to  the  ear  that  doth  Thy  lays  esteem 
And  gives  Thy  pen  both  skill  and  argument. 
Rise,  resty  Muse,  My  Love's  sweet  face  survey, 
If  Time  liave  any  wrinkle  graven  there; 
If  any,  be  a  satire  to  decay, 
And  make  Time's  spoils  despised  everywhere. 

Give  My  Love  fame  faster  than  Time  wastes  life; 

So  Thou  prevent'st  his  scythe  and  crooked  knife. 

As  if  in  disgust,  he  now  calls  upon  Thou  (Truth), 
as  a  muse,  to  redeem  himself  and  renew  his  labor 
in  that  field  where  ho  as  "Thy"  (Thought)  has 
won  all  his  fame.  Waste  no  more  time  in  work 
that  is  of  no  value.  Hide  not  your  light  in  the 
obscurity  of  others;  recall  your  powers  and  come 
back  to  mO;  and  redeem  the  time  you  have  wasted 


174  BACOK  AND  SHAKESPEAnE 

in  noble  labors.  Sing  for  me  (Bacon),  who  love 
thy  poems,  and  give  thee  ''skill  and  argument." 
Arouse  yourself.  Look  at  the  work  you  once  ac- 
complished. Survey  "  My  Love  "  (Lucrece),  and 
satisfy  yourself  whether  she  has  been  injuriously 
affected  by  Time.  If  she  has,  it  is  for  you  to  arrest 
her  decay,  and  defeat  the  spoils  of  Time,  by  giving 
her  universal  renown.  Multiply  it  faster  than 
Time  can  destroy  it,  and  defeat  him  in  his  cruel 
work. 

SOIWET  101. 

O  truant  Mose,  what  shall  be  Thy  amends 
For  Thy  neglect  of  truth  in  beauty  dyed  ? 
Both  truth  and  beauty  on  My  Love  depends; 
So  dost  Thou  too,  and  therein  dignified. 
Make  answer,  Muse,  wilt  Thou  not  haply  say, 
"Truth  needs  no  colour,  with  his  colour  fix'd; 
Beauty  no  pencil,  beauty's  truth  to  lay; 
But  best  is  best,  if  never  intermix 'd  ?  " 
Because  he  needs  no  praise,  wilt  Thou  be  dumb  ? 
Excuse  not  silence  so;  for  't  lies  in  Thee 
To  make  him  much  outlive  a  gilded  tomb, 
And  to  be  prais'd  of  ages  yet  to  be. 

Then  do  Thy  oflSce,  Muse;  I  teach  Thee  how 
To  make  him  seem  long  hence  as  he  shows  now. 

He  charges  his  Muse  with  the  offence  of  truancy, 
and  asks  what  amends  he  will  make  to  Thy 
(Thought)  for  neglecting  "truth  in  beauty  dyed" 
(to  produce  another  poem  like  the  former  of 
*'  Venus  and  Adonis  "),  when  truth  and  beauty  have 
now  only,  My  Love  (Lucrece),  as  a  dependence. 
Answer  me,  Muse  !    Thou   (Truth)   will  probably 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  175 

say  that  Lucrece  needs  no  change,  and  beauty 
needs  no  power  to  decorate  her.  They  are  both 
better  for  being  separate.  But,  0  Muse  !  will  you 
be  silent  because  truth  needs  no  admiration,  when 
it  id  in  your  power  to  give  him  immortal  life,  and 
cause  him  to  be  sought  after  and  admired  through 
all  future  time?  Go  to  work  at  once  under  my  in- 
struction, and  impart  that  life  to  Lucrece  which 
shall  give  her  that  recognition  in  the  future  that 
she  appears  to  have  now. 


Sottot:t  102. 
My  Love  is  strength en'd,  though  more  weak  in  seeming; 
I  love  not  less,  though  less  the  show  appear: 
That  love  is  merchandizM  whose  rich  esteeming 
The  owner's  tongue  dotli  publish  everywhere. 
Oar  love  was  new  and  then  but  in  the  spriug 
When  I  was  wont  to  greet  it  with  My  lays, 
As  Philomel  in  summer's  front  doth  sing 
"  And  stops  her  pipe  in  growth  of  riper  days; 
Not  that  the  summer  is  less  pleasant  now 
Than  when  her  mournful  hymns  did  hush  the  night, 
But  that  wild  music  burthens  every  bough, 
And  sweets  grown  common  lose  their  dear  delight. 
Therefore,  like  her,  I  sometimes  hold  My  tongue, 
Because  I  would  not  dull  You  with  My  song. 

In  this  stanza  he  tells  that  he  has  commenced 
"v\Titing  in  verse. 

He  has  recommenced  writing,  and  finds  that 
since  he  began  to  write  this  poem,  his  power, 
though  seemingly  weaker,  is  in  fact  greater.  His 
theme  affords  him  as  much  pleasure  as  his  dra- 


176  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

matic  works,  but  will  not  be  as  generally  appreci- 
ated. The  works  that  command  the  admiration 
of  the  public  are  such  as  their  authors  wrote  and 
sold  to  the  theatres,  or  for  general  publication. 
His  love  for  the  poem  at  that  time  was  new  to 
him,  in  its  spring-time,  and  like  the  whip-poor- 
will,  who  sings  in  the  early  summer,  so  he  sang 
in  verse  when  lie  began  to  write  this  poem.  As 
she  ceased  with  the  advance  of  the  year,  so  he,  as 
years  came,  also  ceased  to  write  for  a  while.  ♦Not 
that  he  found  less  delight  in  the  poem  now  than 
then,  but  the  world  was  now  full  of  the  poetry  of 
other  writers,  "wild  music,"  and  it  had  become  so 
common  as  to  lose  its  charm.  For  this  reason  he 
had  been  silent  lest  he  should  add  to  the  dulness. 


SONXET   103. 

Alack,  what  poverty  My  Muse  brings  forth. 
That  having  such  a  scope  to  show  her  pride, 
The  argument,  «ll  bare,  is  of  more  worth 
Than  when  it  hath  My  added  praise  beside! 
0,  blame  Me  not,  if  I  no  more  can  write! 
Look  in  your  glass,  and  there  appears *a  face 
That  overgoes  My  blunt  invention  quite. 
Dulling  My  lines  and  doing  Me  disgrace. 
Were  it  not  sinful,  then,  striving  to  mend, 
To  mar  the  subject  that  before  was  well  ? 
For  to  no  other  pass  My  verses  tend 
Tlian  of  Your  graces  and  Your  gifts  to  tell; 

And  more,  much  more,  than  in  My  verse  can  sit 
Your  own  glass  shows  You  when  you  look  in  it. 

He  speaks  in  this  stanza  of  the  difficulties  which 
trouble  him  in  recomposing  the  poem. 


TJ^  THE  SOimETS.  177 

He  can  discover  no  improvement,  upon  the  ver- 
sion he  had  already  written  in  his  attempt  to  re- 
vise it.  With  a  subject  of  unlimited  range  for 
display,  the  mere  statement  was  better  than  the 
dress  he  gave  it.  He  despairs  of  being  able  to 
finish  it,  and  tells  Beauty  that  the  face  she  has 
formed  for  his  heroine  exceeds  his  powers  of  de- 
scrijjtion,  makes  his  lines  tame,  and  shames  his 
genius.  Is  it  not  wrong,  then,  to  rewrite  that 
which  was  so  well  told  before,  and  thus  disfigure 
the  poem?  His  only  aim  is  to  delineate  the  charm 
and  grace  of  his  heroine,  and  beauty  in  those  vir- 
tues is  more  higlily  adorned  than  he  can  depict 
him. 

Sonnet  104. 
To  Me,  fair  friend,  You  never  can  be  old, 
For  as  You  were  when  first  Your  eye  I  eyed, 
Such  seems  Your  beauty  still.     Three  winters  cold 
Have  from  the  forests  shook  three  summers'  jiride, 
Three  beauteous  springs  to  yellow  autumn  turn'd 
In  process  of  the  seasons  have  I  seen, 
Three  April  perfumes  in  three  hot  Junes  burn'd, 
Since  first  I  saw  You  fresh,  which  yet  are  green. 
Ah!  yet  doth  beauty,  like  a  dial-hand, 
Steal  from  his  figure,  and  no  pace  perceiv'd; 
So  Your  sweet  hue,  which  mothinks  still  doth  stand, 
Hath  motion,  and  Mine  eye  may  be  deceived: 
For  fear  of  which,  hear  this.  Thou  age  unbred: 
Ere  You  were  born  was  beauty's  summer  dead. 

This  stanza  is  addressed  to  Lucrece,  his  heroine, 
and  tells  when  he  first  wrote  the  poem. 

You  (being  the  impersonation  of  Beauty)  are 
12 


178  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

qualified  in  this  stanza  by  the  address  "fair  friend," 
at  the  commencement, — which  means  Lucrece, 
She  can  never  be  old  to  him,  and  is  just  as  beauti- 
ful now  as  when  he  first  wrote  the  poem.  Three 
years  have  passed  since  that  time,  and  she  is  still 
green,  or  fresh  in  his  memory.  As  beauty  steals 
from  his  figure  with  the  imperceptible  movement 
of  the  hand  on  the  dial,  so  she,  after  so  long  a 
period,  as  he  thinks,  has  life  and  movement;  but 
lest  he  should  be  deceived,  he  will  inform  the 
poets,  now  so  ambitious  of  renown,  that  "  beauty's 
summer  [was]  dead  "  (was  embodied  in  this  poem) 
before  they  began  to  write. 


Sonnet  105. 
Let  not  My  love  be  call'd  idcLitrv, 
Nor  My  beloved  as  an  idol  show, 
Since  all  alike  My  songs  and  praises  be 
To  one,  of  one,  still  such,  and  ever  so. 
Kind  is  my  love  to-day,  to-morrow  kind. 
Still  constant  in  a  wondrous  excellence; 
Therefore  My  verse  to  constancy  confin'd. 
One  thing  expressing,  leave3  out  diflference. 
*'  Fair,  kind,  and  true  "  is  all  My  argument, 
'•  Fair,  kind,  and  true  "  varying  to  other  words; 
And  in  this  change  is  my  invention  spent, 
Three  themes  in  one,  which  wondrous  scope  affoidu; 
"Fair,  kind,  and  true,"  have  often  liv'd  alone, 
Which  three  till  now  never  kept  seat  in  one. 

His  fondness  for  his  own  work,  though  great, 
must  not  be  mistaken  for  idolatry,  nor  does  ho 
wish  ''My  beloved"  (Lucrece)  to  be  admired  be- 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  179 

yond  lier  deserts,  as  his  object  has  been  simply,  in 
her  character  and  conduct,  to  illustrate  the  influ- 
ence of  constancy.  There  was  no  change  in  her 
affection,  and  she  remained  true  to  her  love,  and 
emphasized  the  truthfulness  of  her  life  by  self-in- 
flicted death.  This,  to  the  exclusion  of  other 
thoughts,  was  the  prominent  feature  of  his  poem. 
Her  beauty,  kindness,  and  truth,  as  changed  only 
by  words  of  like  significance,  had  been  the  three 
themes  which,  though  often  separately  considered, 
had  never  before  in  united  form  been  portrayed 
in  one  poem. 

The  six  stanzas  commencing  at  100  furnish  a 
complete  history  of  the  poem  of  Lucrece.  It  was 
first  written  in  1591,  but  for  some  reason  not  pub- 
lished. Bacon  says  it  was  because  the  world  was 
deluged  with  poetry  at  that  time,  and  this  poem, 
if  published,  would  not  be  appreciated.  The 
probability  is  that  it  was  not  in  all  respects  fin- 
ished to  his  liking,  and  he  laid  it  by  for  further 
consideration.  As  this  poem  was  written  at  the 
time  that  "Venus  and  Adonis"  was  published,  we 
may  presume  that  it  was  the  ''graver  labor''  to 
which  he  referred  in  the  dedication  of  that  *' first 
heir  of  his  invention"  to  the  Earl  of  Southampton. 
This  presumption  finds  confirmation  in  the  fact 
that  he  did  dedicate  this  poem  to  Southampton, 
when  published  in  the  following  year,  1594. 

These  stanzas  all  refer  to  a  recomposition  of 
the  poem,  —  a  work  which  afforded  him  recreation 


ISO  BACON  AND  SIIAIlE^PEAnE 

during  the  long  suspense  of  seventeen  months, 
incurred  by  the  delay  of  the  queen  in  appointing 
a  solicitor.  If  we  may  judge  from  his  own  words, 
this  was  the  most  distressing  period  of  Bacon^s 
early  life.  He  had  surrendered  all  congenial  oc- 
cupation to  the  exigency  of  the  occasion.  Those 
relatives  who  could  have  iided  him  treated  him 
with  coldness,  and  Avhen,  distrustful  of  them,  he 
accepted  the  assistance  of  Essex,  they,  from  pure 
jealousy  of  that  nobleman,  opposed  him.  Fear, 
anxiety,  distrust,  and  suspicion  by  turns  affected 
his  mind.  It  is  only  by  supposing  that  the  labor 
he  bestowed  upon  Lucrece  at  this  time  was  irt  mak- 
ing a  few  changes,  that  we  can  account  for  the 
beauty  and  finish  which  adorns  it. 

Sonnet  106. 
When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, 
And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme 
In  praise  of  ladies  dead  and  lovely  knights, 
Tlien,  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty's  best, 
Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 
I  see  their  antique  i)en  would  have  expresa'd 
Even  such  a  beauty  as  You  master  now. 
So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  our  time,  all  You  prefiguring. 
And,  for  they  look'd  but  with  divining  eyes, 
They  had  not  skill  enough  Your  worth  to  sing: 
For  we,  ^^  hich  now  behold  these  present  days, 
Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to  praise. 

On  surveying  the  poems  that  have  been  written 
by  former  poets,  he  sees  many  descriptions  of  cUar- 


IN  TIIS  SONNETS.  181 

acter,  mucli  beauty  in  the  versification,  and  in  the 
portrayal  of  the  ladies  and  knights  of  the  period 
represented.  These  same  poets,  so  saccessful  in 
that  form  of  delineation,  have  also  in  the  same 
form  of  verse  attempted  to  give  beauty  a  more 
life-like  representation,  in  the  personal  charms  of 
their  female  characters.  They  have  sought  to  givo 
expression  to  the  same  kind  of  character  that  he 
has  since  successfully  delineated.  Their  attempts 
were  but  the  forerunners  of  his  success.  They 
had  the  spirit  of  true  poetry,  but  lacked  the  genius 
and  skill.  Their  works  excite  our  wonder,  but  wo 
cannot  praise  them. 


Sonnet  107. 
Not  Mine  own  fears,  nor  the  prophetic  soul 
Of  the  wide  world  dreaming  on  things  to  come, 
Can  yet  the  lea^o  of  My  True  Love  control, 
SupposM  as  forfeit  to  a  confin'd  doom. 
The  mortal  moon  hath  her  eclipse  endur'd, 
And  the  sad  augurs  mock  their  own  presage; 
In  certainties  now  crown  themseh'es  assur'd, 
And  peace  proclaims  olives  of  endless  age. 
Now  with  the  drops  of  this  most  balmy  time 
My  Love  looks  fresh,  and  Death  to  Me  subscribes. 
Since,  spite  of  him,  I'll  live  in  this  poor  rhyme. 
While  he  insults  o'er  dull  and  speechless  tribes; 
And  Thou  in  this  shalt  find  Thy  monument. 
When  tyrants'  crests  and  tombs  of  brass  are  spent. 

He  has  no  longer  any  fear  for  his  own  safety,  and 
there  is  nothing  in  the  future  to  prevent  him  from 
returning  to  his  dramatic  labors,  which  he  had 


132  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

supposed  would  be  terminated  by  his  appointment 
as  solicitor.  Queen  Elizabeth,  "the  mortal  moon," 
is  dead,  and  James  I.,  "the  eclipse,"  has  ascended 
the  throne,  and  those  who  prophesied  trouble  and 
war  were  mistaken.  All  that  was  uncertain  or 
doubtful  in  the  future  is  now  favorably  settled,  and 
peace  jiromises  to  be  enduring.  The  time  is  pro- 
l)itious  for  him;  his  dramas,  which  he  supposed 
were  completed,  now  seem  to  be  renewed.  They 
have  lost  no  prestige,  and  will  survive  him.  He 
will  live  in  this  poetic  history,  long  after  death 
has  destroyed  nations  and  peoples.  And  Thou 
(Truth)  will  have  it  for  a  memorial  when  kings 
and  their  tombs  are  decayed. 

Sonnet  108. 
What 's  in  the  brain  that  ink  may  character 
Which  hath  not  figur'd  to  Thee  My  tnie  spirit  ? 
What 's  new  to  speak,  what  new  to  register, 
That  may  express  My  Love  or  Thy  dear  merit  ? 
Nothing,  sweet  boy;  but  yet,  like  prayers  divine, 
I  must  each  day  say  o'er  the  very  same. 
Counting  no  old  thing  old,  Thou  mine,  I  Thine, 
Even  as  when  first  I  hallow'd  Thy  fair  name. 
So  that  eternal  Love  in  Love's  fresh  case 
Weighs  not  the  dust  and  injury  of  age, 
Nor  gives  to  necessary  wrinkles  place, 
But  makes  antiquity  for  aye  his  page, 

Finding  the  first  conceit  of  love  there  bred 
Where  time  and  outward  form  would  show  it  dead. 

•  His  other  self.  Thee  (his  thoughts),  is  now  re- 
called from  his  long  exile,  and  questioned  as  to 
his   ability  to   resume   dramatic  labor.     Dd  you 


m  THE  S0N2fETS.  183 

need  anything  new?  Has  not  he  (Bacon)  told 
you,  as  thought,  all  about  his  own  powers  ?  Is 
there  anything  new  to  speak  or  write  about  him- 
self that  you  do  not  fully  understand  ?  Certainly 
not.  He  is  essentially  the  same  now  that  he  was 
before  their  separation.  His  style  of  composition 
is  as  uniform  as  the  prayers  in  the  church  service, 
— the  same  over  and  over,  always  fresh,  never 
old.  Thou  (Truth)  is  his  now  as  he  is  Truth's, 
just  as  he  was  when  he  lirst  called  Thy  (Thought) 
to  his  aid.  So  that  they  may  begin  the  composi- 
tion of  the  new  drama,  just  as  if  there  had  been 
no  separation,  and  he  had  not  grown  older,  but 
was  following  up  the  method  he  had  first  adopted. 
In  that  method  he  had  made  his  first  success,  and 
to  consult  any  other,  depending  upon  time  or  ex- 
ternal observation,,  would  be  to  destroy  their  work. 


Sonnet  109. 
O,  never  say  that  I  was  false  of  heart. 
Though  absence  seem'd  My  flame  to  qualify. 
As  easy  might  I  from  Myself  depart 
As  from  My  soul,  which  in  Thy  breast  doth  lie: 
That  is  My  home  of  love;  if  I  have  rang'd, 
Like  him  that  travels  I  return  again, 
Just  to  the  time,  not  with  the  time  exchang'd, 
So  that  Myself  bring  water  for  My  stain. 
Never  believe,  though  in  My  nature  reign 'd 
All  frailties  that  besiege  all  kinds  of  blood, 
That  it  could  so  preposterously  be  stain 'd. 
To  leave  for  nothing  all  Thy  sum  of  good; 
For  nothing  this  wide  universe  I  call, 
Save  Thou,  My  rose;  in  it  Thou  art  My  all. 


134  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Do  not  accuse  him  of  inconstancy  because,  by 
absence,  his  work  has  been  suspended.  He  could 
forsake  '^  Myself"  (Bacon  as  author)  as  easily  as  he 
could  forsake  "Thy"  (Thought).  In  Thee  is  his 
real  home,  and  if  he  has  been  away»  like  a  traveller, 
he  has  returned  as  soon  as  he  could,  without  any 
change  that  he  has  not  repented  of  in  tears,  and 
"  Myself"  (Bacon  as  author)  has  returned  with 
him.  Don*t  believe,  though  he  may  be  accused 
of  all  errors  common  to  his  race,  that  he  would 
forsake  Thou  (Truth)  for  nothing;  and  as  the 
universe  would  be  nothing  without  Thou,  so  Thou 
(Truth)  in  the  universe  is  his  all. 


Sonnet  110. 

Alas,  't  is  true  I  have  gone  here  and  there. 

And  matle  Myself  a  motley  to  the  view, 

Gor'd  Mine  own  thoughts,  sold  cheap  what  is  most  dear. 

Made  old  oflFences  of  afifections  new; 

Most  true  it  is  that  I  have  look'd  on  truth 

Askance  and  strangely;  but,  by  all  above. 

These  blonches  gave  My  heart  another  youth. 

And  worse  E-isays  prov'd  Thee  My  best  of  love. 

Now  all  is  done,  have  what  shall  have  no  end; 

Mine  appetite  I  never  more  will  grind 

On  newer  proof,  to  try  an  older  friend, 

A  god  in  love,  to  whom  I  am  confin'd. 

Then  give  Me  welcome,  next  My  heaven  the  best. 
Even  to  Thy  pure  and  most  most  loving  breast. 

It  is  unfortunately  true  that,  by  the  means  he 
has  used  to  obtain  preferment,  his  life  appears 
checkered   to   the   world.     He,  ''Myself"  (as   an 


m  THE  SONNETS.  185 

author),  has  appeared  iti  "  motley 'Mii  theatrical 
representations.  He  has  dissembled  his  thoughts, 
sold  cheap  his  most  precious  works,  offended  old 
friends  by  his  choice  of  new  ones,  and  used  deceit 
in  avoidance  of  truth;  but  these  errors,  he  calls 
heaven  to  witness,  renewed  in  him  the  love  which 
in  his  youth  he  had  for  contemplation  and  closet 
studies.  The  Essays  which  he  wrote  under  that 
influence  satisfied  him  that  his  dramas  were  his 
l)est  performances.  Now  that  they  were  finished, 
lie  would  hereafter  work  upon  the  dramas,  and 
never  forsake  them  for  other  modes  of  composi- 
tion. They  were  his  idols,  exclusive  of  all  else. 
He  besought  Thy  (his  other  self)  to  aid  him  with 
all  his  power,  purity,  and  love,  as  next  to  heaven 
he  was  most  dear  to  him. 

Bacon's  first  appearance  in  his  own  name  as 
an  author,  after  his  defeat,  was  in  a  small  volume 
of  "  Essays,"  "  Religious  Meditations,"  and  a  table 
of  ''  The  Colors  of  Good  and  Evil."  This  was  pub- 
lished in  1597,  about  two  years  after  his  defeat 
for  the  solicitorship.  It  doubtless  contained  the 
Essays  to  which  he  refers  in  this  stanza  ("and 
worse  Essays  proved  Thee  My  best  of  love  "),  which 
proved  that  dramatic  writing  was  better  suited  to 
his  taste. 

Sonnet  111. 
O,  for  My  sake  do  You  with  fortune  chide, 
The  guilty  goddesi  of  My  harmful  deoda, 
That  did  not  better  for  My  life  provide 
Thau  public  means  which  public  manners  breeds. 


186  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEAHE 

Thence  comes  it  that  My  name  receives  a  brand, 
And  almost  thence  My  nature  is  subdued 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand. 
Pity  me,  then,  and  wish  I  were  renew'd. 
Whilst,  like  a  willing  patient,  I  will  drink 
Potions  of  eisel  'gainst  My  strong  infection; 
No  bitterness  that  I  will  bitter  think, 
Nor  double  penance  to  correct  correction. 
Pity  me  then,  dear  friend,  and  I  assure  Ye, 
Even  that  Your  pity  is  enough  to  cure  Me. 

It  will  be  observed  in  the  line  preceding  the 
last  that  this  and  the  following  stanzas  are  ad- 
dressed to  *'dear  friend,"  a  term  which  he  uses  to 
designate  some  one  of  his  dramas  or  poems,  as  he 
used  ''fair  friend"  to  designate  Lucrece.  The 
work  here  addressed  is  "Timon  of  Athens."  This 
work«in  the  folio  of  1G23  is  classed  as  a  tragedy. 
It  was  probably  the  first  of  his  dramatic  compo- 
sitions after  his  defeat,  and  was  intended  allegori- 
eally  to  shadow  his  own  bitter  experience  during 
the  long  struggle  preceding  that  disaster. 

The  moral  of  the  play  is  appealed  to,  to  furnish 
an  excuse  for  his  own  errors.  He  was  educated 
for  public  life,  taught  to  depend  upon  it  for  the 
means  of  life,  instructed  in  those  manners  and 
usages  which  were  to  be  observed  by  him  on  ar- 
riving to  manhood.  No  other  provision  was  made 
for  him,  nor  did  he  know  how  else  to  conform 
to  his  condition  in  life.  Extravagance  in  his  ex- 
penses, display  in  his  habit,  profuseness  in  libe- 
rality, costly  attendance,  rich  clothing, —  all  had 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  '  187 

involved  him  in  debt.  He  had  been  required  by 
his  environments  to  live  beyond  his  means,  and 
all  these  misfortunes  are  fully  delineated  in  the 
early  life  of  Timon.  As  Timon  was  flattered,  so 
was  Bacon;  as  Timon  was  confiding,  so  was  Bacon; 
as  Timon  was  lavish  of  his  means,  so  also  was 
Bacon;  and  when  they  were  exhausted,  Timon 
found,  as  Bacon  did,  that  those  who  professed  the 
greatest  love  and  honor  for  him  in  his  day  of  pros- 
perity, now  deserted  and  opposed  him  in  his  efforts 
to  repair  his  fortune.  With  this  picture  before  him 
he  exclaims,  addressing  the  life  he  had  written:  — 

"O,  for  My  sake  do  You  with  fortune  chide, 
The  guilty  goddess  of  My  harmful  deeds, 
That  did  not  better  for  My  life  provide 
Than  public  means  which  public  manners  breeds. " 

His  life  of  indulgence  exposed  him  to  public 
reproach.  He  was  branded  for  his  extravagance 
and  impe^uniosity,  and  had  once  been  arrested 
for  debt,  and  spent  a  night  in  a  sponging-house. 
Timon  in  similar  circumstances  had  been  driven 
to  the  wilderness.  The  unkindness  which  devel- 
oped a  perfect  misanthropy  and  hatred  in  Timon, 
almost  determined  Bacon  to  abandon  public  pur- 
suits, and  adopt  play-writing  with  its  varied  re- 
sources for  a  living.  He  sought  consolation  in 
the  lesson  he  had  furnished  for  himself  in  this 
play.  That  taught  him  submission,  penitence, 
and  composure. 


188  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Sonnet  112. 
Your  love  and  pity  doth  the  impression  fill 
Which  vulgar  scandal  stamp'd  upon  My  brow; 
For  what  care  I  who  calls  Me  well  or  ill, 
So  You  o'er-green  My  bad,  My  good  allow  ? 
You  are  My  all-the-world,  and  I  must  strive 
To  know  My  shames  and  praises  from  Your  tongue; 
None  else  to  me,  nor  I  to  none  alive. 
That  My  steel'd  sense  or  changes  right  or  wrong. 
In  so  profound  abysm  I  throw  all  care 
Of  others'  voices,  that  My  adder's  sense 
To  critic  and  to  flatterer  stopped  are. 
Mark  how  with  My  neglect  I  do  dispense: 
You  are  so  strongly  in  My  purpose  bred, 
That  all  the  world  besides  methinks  are  dead. 

The  selfish  love  of  Timon's  flatterers,  which  was 
infinite  in  professions  while  he  had  money,  and 
the  wordy  pity  with  which  they  refused  him  relief 
when  his  money  was  gone,  fittingly  portrayed  how 
a  similar  experience  had  made  Bacon  a  victim  of 
common  scandal  and  reproach.  Like  Timon,  he 
had  determined  to  disregard  it  entirely,  and  depict 
his  virtues  and  vices,  such  as  they  were,  in  his 
dramas.  He  would  know  his  shames  and  praises 
from  them  alone.  Nothing  else  should  determine 
for  him  the  right  from  the  wrong  in  his  own  life. 
As  Timon  went  to  the  woods  to  escape  the  rebukes 
of  his  pretended  friends,  so  he  would  hide  his  cares 
in  a  profound  unconcern,  for  all  that  the  world 
might  say  of  him.  He  would  be  deaf  alike  to 
criticism  and  flattery,  and  by  courting  their  ne- 
glect escape  their  deceit.  The  same  philosophy 
which  drove  Timon  to  his  death  should  make  the 


m  THE  somrETs.  189 

world  dead  to  him.  This  stanza  is  more  fully  in- 
terpreted in  the  note  "  Francis  Bacon/'  following 
the  poem. 

SO^TNET  113. 

Since  I  left  You,  Mine  eye  is  in  My  mind, 
And  that  which  governs  Me  to  go  about 
Doth  part  His  function  and  is  partly  blind. 
Seems  seeing,  but  efifectually  is  out; 
For  it  no  form  delivers  to  the  heart 
Of  bird,  or  flower,  or  shape,  which  it  doth  latch. 
Of  his  quick  objects  hath  the  mind  no  part, 
Nor  his  own  vision  holds  what  it  doth  catch; 
For  if  it  see  the  rud'st  or  gentlest  sight, 
The  most  sweet  favour  or  deformed'st  creature, 
The  mountain  or  tlie  sea,  the  day  or  night, 
The  crow  or  dove,  it  shapes  them  to  Your  feature: 
Incapable  of  more,  replete  with  You, 
My  most  true  mind  thus  makes  Mine  eye  untrue. 

This  stanza  is  the  first  addressed  to  You 
(Beauty)  since  he  finished  ''Lucrece."  Ho  has 
been  engaged  since  then  in  practical  life,  to  the 
exclusion  of  the  imagination,  which,  while  it 
seems  to  see,  is  effectually  blind.  No  impression 
is  made  by  the  objects  of  beauty  which  he  beholds. 
None  of  the  beauties  of  nature,  birds,  flowers,  or 
shapes,  awaken  reflection.  His  mind  is  torpid 
concerning  them,  and  his  vision  does  not  retain 
them.  All  sights,  whether  ugly,  deformed,  gentle, 
or  sublime, — the  sea,  the  day,  the  night,  the  crow, 
the  dove, — are  alike  beautiful  only,  and  that  beauty 
in  itself  is  replete.  The  most  true  mind,  that 
which  inspired  him  when  he  was  w£i|i»g;3ea^^3 

USIVBESITTj 


190  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEAIiE 

the  mind  which  now  governs  him  untrue  in  exter- 
nal observation. 

Sonnet  114. 
Or  whether  doth  My  mind,  bsing  crown'd  with  You, 
Drink  up  the  monarch's  plague,  this  flattery  ? 
Or  whether  shall  I  say,  Mine  eye  saith  true, 
And  that  Your  love  taught  it  this  alchemy, 
To  make  of  monsters  and  things  indigest 
Such  cherubims  as  Your  sweet  self  resemble. 
Creating  every  bad  a  perfect  best, 
As  fast  as  objecti  to  his  beams  assemble  ? 
O,  't  is  the  first;  't  is  flattery  in  My  seeing. 
And  My  great  mind  most  kingly  drinks  it  up: 
Mine  eye  well  knows  what  with  his  gust  is  greeiug, 
And  to  his  palate  dotli  prepare  the  cup; 
If  it  ba  poison'd,  't  is  the  lesser  sin 
That  Mine  eye  loves  it  and  doth  first  begin. 

In  this  stanza  he  alludes  to  the  tragedy  of  '^King 
Lear.'*  Referring  to  the  preceding  stanza,  he  is 
seemingly  at  a  loss  to  determine  whether  it  is  the 
untruthfuhiess  he  attributes  to  the  eye,  or  flattery, 
that  has  presented  to  his  mind  the  subject  of  his 
tragedy.  He  is  giving  to  monsters  and  "  things 
indigest  "  (hurried  and  unnatural  resolutions),  the 
semblance  of  beauty, — Goneril  and  Regan,  beau- 
tiful in  form  and  feature,  unlimited  in  the  love 
they  profess  for  their  father,  prove  to  be  '*  mon- 
sters" of  filial  ingratitude.  Edmund,  the  natural 
son  of  Gloster,  personally  attractive,  is  a  "  mon- 
ster" of  ingratitude,  deceit,  cruelty,  selfishness, 
and  treachery.  These  three  characters  are  as  per- 
fectly bad  as  they  can  be  made  without  violence 


Iir  THE  SONI^ETS.  191 

to  consistency.  They  are  made  to  appear  in  their 
professions  as  perfectly  good  as  possible,  with  like 
restriction.  Lear,  flattered  by  the  professions  of 
Goneril  and  Regan,  and  outraged  by  Cordelia's 
seeming  remissness,  gives  everything  to  the  for- 
mer two,  and  disinherits  and  curses  the  latter. 
Gloster,  deceived  by  Edmund,  disowns  Edgar, 
seeks  to  slay  him,  and  loses  his  eyes  through  Ed- 
mund's treachery.  The  two  fathers,  by  the  flat- 
tery of  their  children,  committed  great  errors 
through  hastily  formed  (illy  digested)  resolutions. 
Thus  the  allusions  in  the  stanza  serve  to  identify 
the  play. 

Sonnet  115. 
Those  lines  that  I  before  have  writ  do  lie, 
Even  those  that  said  I  could  not  love  You  dearer; 
Yet  then  my  judgment  knew  no  reason  why 
My  most  full  flame  should  afterwards  burn  clearer. 
But  reckoning  Time,  whose  million'd  accidents 
Creep  in  'twixt  vows  and  change  decrees  of  kings, 
Tan  sacred  beauty,  blunt  the  sharp 'st  intents. 
Divert  strong  minds  to  the  course  of  altering  things, 
Alas,  why,  fearing  of  Time's  tyranny. 
Might  I  not  then  say,  "Now  I  love  You  best," 
When  I  was  certain  o'er  incertainty. 
Crowning  the  present,  doubting  of  the  rest  ? 
Love  is  a  babe;  then  might  I  not  say  so. 
To  give  full  growth  to  that  which  still  doth  grow  ? 

In  this  stanza  the  progress  of  the  tragedy  re- 
veals to  the  writer  the  falsity  of  what  was  before 
said  in  the  113th,  about  his  love  for  beauty, 
though  he  did  not  foresee  it  at  the  time.     Since 


102  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

then  one  of  the  million  accidents  of  time  has 
crept  in  to  disturb  the  vows  between  parent  and 
child  (Gloster  and  Edgar),  and  has  caused  the 
king  (Lear)  to  change  his  decrees.  Cordelia's 
beauty,  sacred  in  its  truth  and  purity,  could  not 
avert  her  father's  curse.  His  intentions  were  all 
blunted.  His  naturally  strong  mind  was  diverted 
from  its  original  purpose,  which  was  altered.  In 
view  of  these  occurrences,  the  writer,  at  the  time  he 
professed  himself  "replete  with  You"  (Beauty), 
might  have  said  with  seeming  truth,  "Now  I  love 
You  best."  He  was  only  mistaldng  Love  in  its 
infancy  for  Love  in  perfection,  and  making  no 
allowance  for  its  growth. 


S0J5NET  116. 

liet  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 

Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 

Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 

Or  bends  with  tlie  remover  to  remove: 

O,  no !  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark 

That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken; 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 

Whose  worths  unknown,  although  his  height  be  taken. 

Love  's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 

Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come; 

Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 

But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 

If  this  be  error  and  upon  me  prov'd, 

I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  Icv'd. 

In  this  stanza  the  picture  of  Love  is  drawn  from 
the  lessons  inculcated  in  the  "  Tempest."     No  im- 


ly  THE  SONNETS.  193 

pediments,  however  great,  should  separate  honest 
men.  Prospero's  love  for  Antonio  and  Alonzo 
survived  all  wrongs  they  had  inflicted  upon  him, 
though  they  removed  him  frcvn  his  dukedom,  and 
exposed  him  and  his  child  to  death.  Their  con- 
sciences, exhibited  by  a  tempest  which  filled  them 
with  terror  and  dismay,  and  for  a  time  brought 
desolation  and  grief  to  their  hearts,  also  wrought 
repentance  for  their  error,  and  restored  them  to 
happiness,  bringing  with  it  the  blessing  of  a  union 
through  the  loves  of  their  children,  stronger  than 
ever.  Thus  was  illustrated  in  the  conduct  of 
Prospero,  the  triumph  of  love  over  the  power  of  re- 
venge, and  its  survival  after  years  of  wrong  and 
injury,  while  in  the  loves  of  Francisco  and  Miranda 
it  was  shown  that  the  briefest  love  when  mutual, 
where  both  are  true,  is  only  broken  by  death.  If 
this  be  not  true  in  morals,  he  has  written  in  vain, 
and  love  has  no  existence. 


Sonnet  117. 
Accuse  me  thus:  tliat  I  have  scanted  all 
Wherein  I  should  Your  great  deserts  repay, 
Forgot  upon  Your  dearest  love  to  call^ 
Whereto  all  bonds  do  tie  Me  day  by  day; 
That  I  have  frequent  been  with  unknown  minds, 
And  given  to  time  Your  own  dear-purchas'd  right; 
That  I  have  hoisted  sail  to  all  the  winds 
Which  should  transport  Me  farthest  from  Your  sight. 
Book  both  My  wilfulness  and  errors  down. 
And  on  just  proof  surmise  accumulate; 
13 


194  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Bring  Me  within  the  level  of  Your  frown. 
But  shoot  not  at  Me  in  your  waken'd  hate; 
Since  My  apjjeal  says  I  did  strive  to  prove 
The  CONSTANCY  and  virtue  of  Your  love. 


In  this  stanza  he  applies  the  moral  drawn  from 
the  ** Tempest"  to  his  own  indifference  to  the 
claims  of  You  (Beauty).  He  has  been  regardless 
of  his  deservings,  forgotten  all  the  delight  beauty 
once  afforded  him,  despite  the  unceasing  dictates 
of  his  genius  and  inclination.  He  has  engaged  in 
pursuits  in  which  beauty  took  no  part,  and  sought 
various  positions  where  he  could  never  be  seen. 
All  this  neglect  he  could  be  accused  of,  and  it 
could  be  recorded  against  him.  Nay,  a  thousand 
other  errors,  if  just  proof  could  be  obtained,  might 
increase  this  list  to  bring  upon  him  the  frown 
of  beauty.  But  now  that  he  had  returned,  and 
beauty  had  been  aroused,  he  sought  to  avoid  his 
anger,  upon  the  plea  that  in  Cordelia  he  had 
striven  to  prove  the  constancy,  and  in  Miranda 
the  VIRTUE,  of  beauty's  love. 


Sonnet  118. 

Like  as,  to  make  our  appetites  more  keen. 

With  eager  compounds  We  our  palate  urge. 

As,  to  prevent  our  maladies  unseen, 

We  sicken  to  shun  sickness  when  we  purge, 

Even  so,  being  full  of  Your  ne'er-cloying  sweetness, 

To  bitter  sauces  did  I  frame  My  feeding. 

And,  sick  of  welfare,  found  a  kind  of  mestness 

To  be  diseas'd,  ere  that  there  waa  true  needing. 


m  THE  SONNETS.  195 

Thus  policy  in  love,  to  anticipate 
The  ills  that  were  not,  grew  to  faults  assur'd. 
And  brought  to  medicine  a  liealthful  state 
Which,  rank  of  goodness,  would  by  ill  be  cur'd; 
But  thence  I  learn,  and  find  the  lesson  true, 
Drugs  poison  him  that  so  fell  sick  of  You. 

As  we  use  various  compounds  to  sharpen  the 
appetite,  and  medicines  which  sicken  us  to  avoid 
real  sickness,  so  he,  enraptured  with  beauty, 
turned  his  attention  to  less  congenial  occupation, 
which,  while  it  did  not  disturb  his  life,  was 
unsuited  to  his  wishes.  This  change  in  his  life, 
not  necessary  at  the  time,  had  the  effect  of  wean- 
ing him  from  his  studies,  and  involving  him  in 
all  the  tricks  and  arts  of  a  seeker  for  office.  He 
had  had  enough  of  this  experience,  and  had 
learned  from  it,  that  while  it  had  injured  his 
name,  it  had  only  increased  his  love  for  the  cher- 
ished pursuits  he  had  left. 

Sonnet  119. 
What  potions  have  I  drunk  of  Siren  tears, 
Distill'd  from  limbecks  foul  as  hell  within, 
Applying  fears  to  hopes,  and  hopes  to  fears, 
Still  losing  when  I  saw  Myself  to  win  1 
What  wretched  errors  hath  My  heart  committed. 
Whilst  it  hath  thought  itself  so  blessed  never  ! 
How  have  Mine  eyes  out  of  their  spheres  been  fitted 
In  the  distraction  of  this  madding  fever  ! 
0  benefit  of  ill !  now  I  find  true, 
That  better  is  by  evil  still  made  better; 
And  ruin'd  love,  when  it  is  built  anew. 
Grows  fairer  than  at  first,  more  strong,  far  greater. 
So  I  return  rebuk'd  to  My  content. 
And  gain  by  ill  thrice  more  than  I  have  spent. 


196  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

In  this  stanza  he  tells  how  the-<?hange  in  his 
life  had  affected  him. 

He  had  been  deceived  and  allured  by  the  false 
promises  and  insincere  professions  of  pretended 
friends.  At  one  moment  his  hopes  were  bright 
and  clear,  while  the  next  they  were  darkened  with 
fear.  He  was  certain  of  success  to-day,  to-morrow 
as  certain  of  defeat.  He  had  been  misled  by  his 
Jiopes-,  in  his  calculations,  when  he  thought  suc- 
cess assured.  The  care,  anxiety,  and  unceasing 
labor  of  the  contest  had  unfitted  him  for  literary 
work.  This  terrible  experience  had,  in  compari- 
son, added  new  charms  to  his  old  pursuits.  He 
could  engage  in  them  anew  with  more  delight. 
The  works  he  would  produce  would  be  fairer, 
stronger,  and  greater.  Rebuked  as  he  had  been 
by  forsaking,  he  would  be  content  in  returning  to 
them,  and  thus  gain  by  his  experience  thrice  more 
than  he  had  paid  for  it. 


SoN]raT  120. 

That  You  were  once  unkind  befriends  me  now. 
And  for  that  sorrow  which  I  then  did  feel 
Needs  must  I  under  My  transgression  bow, 
Unless  my  nerves  were  brass  or  hammer'd  steel. 
For  if  you  were  by  My  unkindness  shaken 
As  I  by  Yours,  You  've  pass'd  a  hell  of  time. 
And  I,  a  tyrant,  have  no  leisure  taken 
To  weigh  how  once  I  suffer'd  in  your  crime. 
O,  that  our  night  of  woe  might  have  remember'd 
My  deepest  sense,  how  hard  true  sorrow  hits, 


m  THE  SONNETS.  197 

And  soon  to  You,  as  You  to  Me,  then  tender'd 
The  humble  salve  which  wounded  bosoms  fits ! 

But  that  Your  trespass  now  becomes  a  fee; 

Mine  ransoms  Yours,  and  Yours  must  ransom  Me. 

He  refers  back  to  the  time  of  the  discovery  of 
his  own  lines  in  the  drama  of  another,  mentioned 
in  the  eighty-sixth  stanza,  as  marking  the  unkind- 
ness  of  Beauty,  and  the  immediate  cause  of  their 
long  separation.  All  his  sorrow  and  transgression 
had  occurred  since  then.  So  greatly  had  they 
affected  him,  that  only  nerves  of  brass  or  steel 
would  be  unshaken  by  them.  If  Beauty  had  been 
similarly  affected  during  the  same  period,  the 
time  must  have  been  infernal  in  torment.  He 
had  taken  no  leisure  to  estimate  it,  but  if  on  that 
night  that  he  made  the  discovery  he  could  have 
known  the  trials  and  afflictions  that  he  had  since 
experienced,  he  would  never  have  surrendered 
Beauty  for  the  struggles  of  an  office-seeker.  Now 
that  he  had  come  back,  Beauty^s  trespass  upon 
his  powers  was  in  the  nature  of  a  fee,  and  they 
must  mutually  forgive  each  other. 


Sonnet  121. 
T  is  better  to  be  vile  than  vile  esteem'd, 
When  not  to  be  receives  reproach  of  being, 
And  the  just  pleasure  lost  which  is  so  deem'd 
Not  by  our  feeling,  but  by  others'  seeing; 
For  why  should  others'  false  adulterate  eyes 
Give  salutation  to  my  sportive  blood  ? 
Or  on  My  frailties  why  are  frailer  spies, 
"Which  in  their  willd  count  bad  Avhat  I  think  good  ? 


198  BACOy  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

No,  I  am  that  I  am,  and  they  that  level 

At  My  abuses  reckon  up  their  own: 

I  may  be  straight,  though  they  themselves  be  bevel; 

By  their  rank  thoughts  my  deeds  must  not  he  shown; 
Unless  this  general  evil  they  maintain, 
All  men  are  bad,  and  in  their  badness  reign. 

He  thinks  it  preferable  to  be  really  guilty  of  the 
plagiarisms  with  which  he  has  been  charged,  than, 
being  not  guilty,  to  sufifer  the  reproach,  as  in  the 
latter  case,  knowing  his  own  merit,  he  is  deprived 
of  the  public  appreciation,  and  suffers  unjustly. 
Why  should  other  writers,  who  are  more  guilty 
than  he  of  using  the  writings  of  others  to  dress 
up  their  wit,  be  his  accusers?  Why  should  those 
who  have  made  licentiousness  the  subject  of  their 
dramas  charge  him  with  it,  and  denounce  as 
wicked  what  he  thinks  good?  He  obeys  his  own 
taste  in  his  works,  and  asks  no  favors  of  those 
around  him.  They  only  publish  their  own  guilt 
in  the  effort  to  blacken  him.  For  aught  they 
know,  he  may  be  right  and  they  wrong.  Neither 
the  truth  nor  falsity  of  his  writings  must  he  tried 
by  what  they  may  ignorantly  say  of  them,  unless 
they  assume  ignorance  and  pretension  to  be  proper 
standards  of  judgment  for  all  men  to  adopt. 


Sonnet  122. 
Thy  gift,  Thy  tables,  are  within  My  brain 
Full  character'd  with  lasting  memory. 
Which  shall  above  that  idle  rank  remain 
Beyond  all  date,  even  to  eternity; 


m  THE  SONXETS.  199 

Or  at  tho  least,  so  long  as  brain  and  heart 
Have  faculty  by  nature  to  subsist; 
Till  each  to  raz'd  oblivion  yield  his  part 
Of  Thee,  Thy  record  never  can  be  miss'd. 
That  poor  retention  could  not  so  much  hold, 
Nor  need  I  tallies  Thy  dear  love  to  score; 
Til  ere  fore  to  give  them  from  me  was  I  bold, 
To  trust  those  tables  that  receive  Thee  more: 

To  keep  an  adjunct  to  remember  Thee 

Were  to  import  forgetfuluess  in  me. 

His  power  as  a  writer  and  all  the  resources  he 
has  employed  are  born  of  himself.  They  can 
never  be  lost  to  him,  and  are  equally  inaccessi- 
ble to  his  ignorant  accusers.  They  will  endure 
forever,  or  at  least  as  long  as  brain  and  heart 
subsist.  Until  these  are  destroyed  they  will  re- 
main. His  manuscripts  could  not  contain  them, 
and  as  he  needed  nothing  to  remind  him  of  them, 
he  had  destroyed  all  records,  trusting  to  the  table 
of  his  memory  which  had  received  them  in  their 
full  development.  It  would  be  a  reproach  to  his 
memory  to  keep  any  mementos  of  the  work  which 
he  held  in  such  loving  veneration. 

It  may  be  fairly  inferred  from  the  two  preced- 
ing stanzas,  that  the  plays  which  appeared  in 
Shakespeare's  name  had  aroused  the  envy  of 
contemporaneous  writers.  They  sought  to  de- 
preciate them  in  the  public  estimation  by  char- 
ging the  author  with  plagiarism.  He  replies  by 
accusing  them  with  an  aggravated  use  of  the 
same  means,  and  the  additional  chargu  of  igno- 


200  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

ranee,  which  disqualifies  them  from  judging  him 
correctly.  But  lest  their  charges  should  at  some 
time  be  substantiated  by  his  papers  and  memo- 
randa, he  destroys  them  all,  trusting  to  his  mem- 
ory, and  claims  his  works  as  the  product  of  his 
own  brain. 

Sonnet  123. 
No,  Time,  Thou  shalt  not  boast  that  I  do  change: 
Thy  pyramids  built  up  with  newer  might, 
To  Me  are  nothing  novel,  nothing  strange; 
They  are  but  dressings  of  a  former  sight. 
Our  dates  arc  brief,  and  therefore  we  admire 
What  Thou  dost  foist  upon  us  that  is  old, 
And  rather  make  them  born  to  our  desire, 
Than  think  that  we  before  have  heard  them  told. 
Thy  registers  and  Thee  I  both  defy, 
Not  wondering  at  the  present  nor  the  past, 
For  Thy  records  and  what  we  see  doth  lie. 
Made  more  or  less  by  Thy  continual  haste. 
Thi3  I  do  vow  and  this  shall  ever  be: 
I  will  be  true,  despite  Thy  scythe  and  Thee. 

In  this  stanza  he  apologizes  for,  or  rather  ex- 
cuses, any  use  he  may  have  made  of  the  works  of 
former  writers  in  the  construction  of  his  own. 

Time  can  know  no  change  in  him,  as  there  is 
nothing  new  in  the  past.  No  description  of  the 
pyramids,  however  animated  or  glowing,  could 
make  them  appear  novel  or  strange  to  him.  It 
would  be  but  a  new  description  of  what  he  had 
known  before.  Our  lives  are  short,  and  rather 
than  spend  them  in  search  of  new  wonders,  we 
admire  the  old  ones,  and  each  observer,  led  by 


m  THE  SONNETS.  201 

his  own  tastes,  finds  new  beauties  in  them  that 
he  has  never  heard  mentioned  by  others.  He 
would  not  trust  to  the  records  that  all  ages  have 
furnished  of  things  in  the  past  or  present,  for  his 
own  opinon  of  them;  because  they  depend  upon 
the  accounts  which,  being  formed  from  both 
careful  and  careless  examination,  are  necessarily 
untrue.  But  in  his  writings,  also  founded  upon 
events  and  stories  of  past  ages,  he  will  write 
truly,  despite  all  the  changes  of  time.  Such  truth 
as  they  afford  in  the  illustration  of  truth,  phi- 
losophy, poetry,  character,  and  life,  he  will  use, 
without  regard  to  the  skeleton  which  the  past  has 
furnished  to  be  decorated  by  them.  In  this  re- 
spect his  dramas  differ  from  those  of  his  con- 
temporaries, who  are  satisfied  to  use  the  stories 
and  events  of  the  past,  as  of  themselves  sufficient 
for  their  work. 

Sonnet  124. 
If  My  dear  love  were  but  the  child  of  state. 
It  might  for  Fortune's  ba^stard  be  unfather'd, 
As  subject  to  Time's  love  or  to  Time's  hate, 
Weeds  among  weeds,  or  flowers  with  flowers  gather'd. 
No,  it  was  builded  far  from  accident; 
It  suflFers  not  in  smiling  pomp,  nor  falls 
Under  the  blow  of  thralled  discontent, 
Whereto  the  inviting  time  our  fashion  calls: 
It  fears  not  policy,  that  heretic, 
Which  works  on  leases  of  short-number'd  hours, 
But  all  alone  stands  hugely  politic. 
That  it  nor  grows  with  heat  nor  drowns  with  showers. 
To  this  I  witness  call  the  fools  of  time, 
Which  die  for  goodness,  who  have  liv'd  for  crime. 


202  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

In  this  stanza  he  contrasts  the  permanency  of 
his  writings  with  the  character  he  has  drawn  of 
Posthumus  in  the  play  of ''  Cymbeline/'  which  he 
was  probably  composing  at  the  time.  Posthumus 
w^as  the  adopted  child  of  Cymbeline,  and  was  sub- 
ject to  such  fortune  as  Time  held  in  store  for  him, 
whether  good  or  bad, — a  weed  among  weeds,  or  a 
flower  among  flowers.  So  his  play,  if  it  were  sim- 
ilarly exposed,  would  suffer  from  similar  causes. 
But  this  was  not  its  fortune.  Unlike  Posthumus, 
it  was  unaffected  by  accident,  owed  nothing  to  the 
pomp  and  glitter  of  the  court,  and  free  of  obliga- 
tion, suffered  nothing  from  the  unkindness  of 
majesty  as  Posthumus  did.  It  suffered  from  no 
policy  that,  as  in  the  case  of  Posthumus,  limited 
his  stay  at  court  at  the  risk  of  his  life.  But  it  was 
a  creation  of  itself,  defiant  of  all  the  elements  of 
court  life  and  power.  Those  courtiers  who  spent 
their  lives  in  dancing  attendance  upon  majesty, 
and  were  finally  rewarded  with  frowns,  disappoint- 
ments, and  often  death  itself,  would  do  well  to 
profit  by  such  an  example.  (See  note  ^'Francis 
Bacon,"  for  further  interpretation.) 


Sonnet  125. 
Were 't  anght  to  me  I  bore  the  canopy, 
With  my  extern  the  outward  honouring. 
Or  laid  great  bases  for  eternity, 
Which  prove  more  short  than  waste  or  ruining  ? 
Have  I  not  seen  dwellers  on  form  and  favour 
Lose  all,  and  more,  by  paying  too  much  rent, 


m  THE  SONNETS.  203 

For  compound  sweet  foregoing  simple  savour, 
Pitiful  thrivers,  in  their  gazing  spent  ? 
No,  let  Me  be  obsequious  in  Thy  heart. 
And  take  Thou  my  oblation,  poor  but  free, 
Which  is  not  mix'd  with  seconds,  knows  no  art. 
But  mutual  render,  only  Me  for  Thee. 

Hence,  thou  suborn'd  informer!  a  true  soul 
When  most  impeach 'd  stands  least  in  thy  control. 

Of  what  value  was  it  to  him  that  he  bore  the 
canopy  of  royalty,  and  with  his  presence  honored 
the  outward  show?  How  did  it  aid  him  to  labor 
for  long  months  to  attain  favor  from  the  queen, 
which  eventuated  in  the  waste  of  fortune  and  dis- 
appointment of  his  hopes  ?  Had  he  not  seen 
others  deceived  in  the  same  way,  who  for  the 
allurements  of  office  gave  up  honest  life,  and  spent 
their  all  for  preferment?  No;  he  was  satisfied 
with  the  delights  of  authorship,  with  delineat- 
ing truth  in  character,  which,  while  aff'ording  no 
wealth,  is  free  of  care,  and  a  source  of  constant 
enjoyment.  It  placed  him  beyond  the  reach  of 
informers,  and  preserved  his  integrity  of  purpose 
and  life. 

Sonnet  126. 

O  Thou,  My  lovely  boy,  who  in  Thy  power 
Dost  hold  Time's  fickle  glass  his  fickle  hour; 
Who  hast  by  waning  grown,  and  therein  show'st 
Thy  lovers  withering  as  Thy  sweet  self  grow'st; 
If  Nature,  sovereign  mistress  over  wrack. 
As  Thou  goest  onwards,  still  will  pluck  Thee  back, 
She  keeps  Thee  to  this  purpose,  that  her  skill 
May  time  disgrace  and  wretched  minutes  kill. 


204  BAC02T  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Yet  fear  her,  0  Thou  minion  of  her  pleasure! 
She  may  detain,  but  not  still  keep,  her  treasure; 
Her  audit,  though  delay'd,  auswer'd  must  be, 
And  her  quietus  is  to  render  Thee. 

This  stanza  refers  entirely  to  "Hamlet/'  The 
irresolution  of  the  prince  in  avenging  the  murder 
of  his  father  is  alluded  to  in  the  "fickle  glass  and 
fickle  hour"  of  time,  as  being  held  by  Thou 
(Truth)  for  his  own  purpose.  This  hesitation,  or 
"  waning,"  of  Hamlet  has  grown,  and  become  a 
more  prominent  feature  of  his  character  as  time 
advanced.  It  has  shown  the  "lovers  withering" 
in  the  separation  of  Hamlet  and  Ophelia,  and  her 
death.  Nature,  despite  the  wreck  of  his  mind 
and  hopes,  and  the  love  he  bore  to  his  mother, 
still  withheld  him  from  his  purpose,  that  the  dis- 
grace of  his  mother  by  her  hasty  marriage  with 
Claudius  might  be  clearly  illustrated,  and  due  prep- 
aration made  for  the  "  wretched  minutes"  in  which 
all  were  slain.  Although  held  back  and  detained, 
Thou  (Truth)  had  a  further  motive,  the  death 
of  Hamlet  himself,  whom  he  detained,  that  he 
might  skilfully  arrange  for  that  denouement, 
"  and  her  [Nature's]  quietus  is  to  render  Thee." 
(See  note  "Francis  Bacon,"  for  further  interpre- 
tation.) 

Commentators  generally  believe  that  the  127th 
Sonnet  is  the  beginning  of  a  new  series,  which 
conveys  a  meaning  entirely  distinct  from  any- 
thing  contained    in   the    preceding    Sonnets.     I 


TN  THE  SON^''ETS.  205 

have  before  me,  while  writing  this,  a  photo-litho- 
graphic fac-simile  of  the  first  quarto  edition  of 
the  Sonnets  of  1609,  "from  the  copy  in  the  Brit- 
ish Museum,  by  Charles  Praetorius,  Photographer 
to  the  British  Museum,"  etc.  In  the  space  be- 
tween the  126th  and  127th  Sonnets  two  pairs  of 
parenthetical  characters  occur,  thus  (were  they 
pat  there  by  the  artist?): — 

(  ) 

(  ) 

They  are  seeming  reproductions  of  the  printed 
work.  Why  are  they  there?  They  occur  at  the 
close  of  the  first  stanza  in  which  allusion  is 
made  to  Hamlet  (126),  and  preceding  the  first  in 
which  Othello  is  indicated  (127).  This  last  stanza 
is  followed  by  one  (128)  ludicrously  descriptive  of 
the  attempts  of  other  authors  to  imitate  the  spirit 
and  style  of  the  dramas,  and  that  by  one  (129) 
which  suggests  the  guilty  love  of  Claudius  and 
Gertrude  in  ''Hamlet."  A  ludicrous  description 
of  "  My  Mistress  "  (Tragedy),  indirectly  alluding 
to  Othello,  occurs  in  130. 

The  parenthetical  characters  have  some  signifi- 
cance. They  would  hardly  be  selected  to  desig- 
nate the  commencement  of  a  new  series;  but  as 
suggestive  of  the  omission  or  tranposition  of  two 
stanzas,  their  appearance  is  both  natural  and 
proper.  If  two  approximate  stanzas  could  be 
found  that  would  restore  the  breaks  in  the  se- 
quence of  the  poem,  would  it  not  be  reasonable 


206  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEABE 

to  conclude  tliat  they  belonged  in  the  spaces  in- 
closed by  the  parentheses?  Place  129  after  126, 
and  follow  the  last  with  128,  and  the  breaks 
in  both  Hamlet  and  Othello  are  repaired,  and 
the  description  of  each  is  uninterrupted.  This  is 
the  only  instance  in  the  entire  poem  where  the 
meaning  is  clouded  by  transposition.  It  is  so 
marked  that  it  ought  to  assure  the  genuineness  of 
the  discovery  which  completes  the  thought. 


Sonnet  127. 
In  the  old  age  black  was  not  counted  fair, 
Or  if  it  were,  it  bore  not  beauty's  name; 
But  now  is  black  beauty's  successive  heir, 
And  beauty  slander'd  with  a  bastard  shame: 
For  since  each  hand  hath  put  on  nature's  power, 
Fairing  the  foul  with  art's  false  borrow'd  face. 
Sweet  beauty  hath  no  name,  no  holy  bower, 
But  is  profan'd,  if  not  lives  in  disgrace. 
Tlierefore  My  Mistress'  brows  are  raven  black, 
Her  eyes  so  suited,  and  they  mourners  seem 
At  such  who,  not  born  fair,  no  beauty  lack, 
Sland'ring  creation  with  a  false  esteem; 
Yet  so  they  mourn,  becoming  of  their  woe. 
That  every  tongue  soys  beauty  should  look  so. 

Othello  is  the  drama  signified  in  this  stanza. 
"Until  the  present  time,  white  people  only  have 
been  represented  in  the  leading  characters  of  the 
dramas.  Black  is  now  selected  for  that  purpose, 
and  Beauty  is  represented  in  Desdemona  as  suf- 
fering from  the  foulest  slander  that  can  assail  a 
wife.     As  the   other  writers  of  the  age  have  at- 


m  THE  SONNETS,  207 

tempted  to  delineate  nature  in  tragic  illustration 
of  life,  and  made  artificial  work  of  it,  Beauty  has 
no  place,  or  name,  or  protection  in  their  writ- 
ings. He  is  profaned  and  disgraced  by  them. 
For  the  purpose  of  rescuing  him,  having  cliosen 
Tragedy  for  his  Mistress,  he  now  presents  him  in 
black.  His  observation  will  be  employed  to  dem- 
onstrate in  his  work  that  personal  beauty  is  not 
necessarily  the  only  beauty,  and  the  world  may 
bo  deceived  by  it.  In  the  anguish  and  distress  of 
Othello  he  will  depict  a  beauty  that  shall  be  ad- 
mired by  all. 

Thence  to  the  close  of  the  poem,  it  is  supposed 
to  be  addressed  to  his  Mistress,  and  many  strange 
and  curious  opinions  as  to  what  manner  of  per- 
son she  must  have  been,  to  answer  the  description 
given  her  by  the  poet,  have  been  sanctioned  by 
the  best  Shakespearian  scholars  of  all  generations 
since  the  poem  appeared.  She  was  of  very  dark 
complexion,  of  a  fiery  nature,  passionate  beyond  all 
reason,  false  in  all  the  elements  of  good  character, 
and,  as  the  author  has  written,  in  general  make- 
up a  perfect  devil.  That  Shakespeare  should  have 
loved  such  a  woman,  and  published  the  fact  to 
the  world,  has  given  birth  to  deeper  regrets  and 
weaker  apologies  than  any  similar  sin  ever  re- 
ceived. If  these  writers  had  by  chance  lit  upon 
the  idea  that  Bacon  instead  of  Shakespeare  was 
the  author  of  this  poem,  with  the  knowledge 
which  history  gives  of   his  life  and  character,  I 


208  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

am  prone  to  believe  they  would  have  sought  and 
found  a  more  pleasing  and  satisfactory  interpre- 
tation than  the  one  so  generally  adopted. 

Let  us  suppose,  then,  as  I  have  attempted  to 
prove,  that  in  the  126  stanzas  preceding  this  one, 
Lord  Bacon  has  told  us,  in  allegory,  of  the  manner 
in  which  these  plays  were  produced,  and  given 
many  good  reasons  why,  not  wishing  to  be  known 
as  their  author,  he  had  disposed  of  the  author- 
ship to  Shakespeare.  Let  us  accept  as  true  what 
he  tells  us,  that  he  found  his  highest  delight  in 
composing  them,  that  by  forsaking  that  employ- 
ment to  engage  in  office-seeking  and  politics,  he 
brought  shame  and  disgrace  upon  his  name,  and 
unending  sorrow  to  his  life.  His  only  source  of 
relief  was  to  re-engage  in  the  work  which  had 
afforded  him  so  much  happiness.  He  had  found 
that  in  the  attempt  to  do  so,  his  powers  were 
stronger  than  ever,  his  inclinations  and  tastes  had 
not  been  changed,  and  that  his  strong  desire  was 
to  enter  upon  a  new  field  of  investigation,  which 
should  represent  character  and  life  in  the  intens- 
est  modes  of  crime  and  passion.  It  is  this  change 
in  the  aspect  of  the  plays  he  is  now  writing  that 
he  foreshadows  in  *'My  Mistress.''  It  is  Tragedy. 
He  has  written  Comedies  and  Histories,  but  in 
this  mightier  field,  he  has  never  entered.  The 
public  taste  is  favorable.  Tragedy  was  not  popu- 
lar when  he  wrote  his  first  plays,  and  the  little  tra- 
gedy they  contained  "bore  not  Beauty's  name" 


m  THE  SONNETS.  209 

(gave  to  Tragedy  no  distinctive  character;  they 
were  known  only  as  Comedies  or  Histories). 
Now,  however,  it  was  in  favor;  it  ''was  Beauty's 
successive  heir."  A  host  of  dramatists,  Marlow, 
Lodge,  Jonson,  and  others,  were  at  work  upon 
tragedies,  but  their  portrayal  of  character  was 
untrue  to  nature;  they  faired  "the  foul  [the 
darkest  characters]  with  art's  false  borrow'd  face," 
and  thus  profaned  and  disgraced  Beauty.  For 
this,  among  other  good  reasons,  he  had  made 
choice  of  Tragedy. 

Sonnet  128. 

How  oft,  when  Thou,  my  music,  music  play'st, 
Upon  that  blessed  wood  whose  motion  sounds 
With  Thy  sweet  fingers,  when  Thou  gently  sway'st 
The  wiry  concord  that  Mine  ear  confounds, 
Do  I  envy  those  jacks  that  nimble  leap 
To  kiss  the  tender  inward  of  Thy  hand, 
Whilst  My  poor  lips,  which  should  that  harvest  reap, 
At  the  wood's  boldness  by  Thee  blushing  stand  ! 
To  be  so  tickled,  they  would  change  their  state 
And  situation  with  those  dancing  chips. 
O'er  whom  Thy  fingers  walk  with  gentle  gait. 
Making  dead  wood  more  bless 'd  than  living  lips. 
Since  saucy  jacks  so  happy  are  in  this. 
Give  then  Thy  fingers.  Me,  Thy  lipa  to  kiss. 

He  tells  us  in  this  stanza  of  the  amusement  it 
affords  him  to  witness  the  vain  efforts  and  strug- 
gles of  other  writers,  to  imitate  and  rival  him  in 
the  delineation  of  Truth  in  his  dramas.  Their 
efforts  are  likened  to  the  exercise  of  the  fingers 
when  playing  upon  the  virginals.     The  virginals 

14 


210  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

represent  the  progress  of  literary  work.  Thou,  or 
Truth,  is  supposed  to  be  the  inspirer  of  the  work 
in  hand,  in  the  production  of  which  he  uses  the 
fingers  of  Thy,  the  thinker  or  creator,  and  the 
jacks  or  keys  to  the  instrument  are  the  authors 
themselves.  The  music,  or  the  matter  which  the 
instrument  thus  formed  produces,  "  confounds  *' 
him.  He  would  like  the  opportunity  to  try  his 
skill,  and  see  if  he  could  not  excel  those  writers.  If 
he  could  be  as  well  pleased  with  his  own  efforts  as 
they  seem  to  be  with  theirs,  he  would  gladly 
exchange  places  with  them  and  produce  better 
work.  But  as  they,  "  the  saucy  jacks,"  are  so  well 
satisfied,  let  them  work  on  with  the  fingers,  or 
slight  touches  of  truth.  He  will  receive  it  from 
the  lips,  the  only  reliable  source. 


Sonnet  129. 

The  expense  of  spirit  in  a  waste  of  shame 

Is  lust  in  action;  and  till  action,  lust 

Is  perjur'd,  murtherous,  bloody,  full  of  blame. 

Savage,  extreme,  rude,  cruel,  not  to  trust, 

Enjoy'd  no  sooner  but  despised  straight, 

Past  reason  hunted,  and  no  sooner  had 

Past  reason  hated,  as  a  swallow'd  bait 

On  purpose  laid  to  make  the  taker  mad> 

Mad  in  pursuit  and  in  possession  so; 

Had,  having,  and  in  quest  to  have,  extreme; 

A  bliss  in  proof,  and  prov'd,  a  very  woe; 

Before,  a  joy  propos'd;  behind,  a  dream. 

All  this  the  world  well  knows;  yet  none  knows  well 
To  shun  the  heaven  that  leads  men  to  this  hell. 


m  THE  SONNETS.  211 

This  stanza,  which  describes  the  guilty  passion 
that  influenced  Claudius  to  murder  his  brother, 
and  led  to  all  the  grief,  sorrow,  death,  and  final 
destruction  of  the  characters  delineated  in  Ham- 
let, tells  its  own  story  better  than  any  interpreta- 
tion. 

Sonnet  130. 

My  mistress'  eyes  are  nothing  like  the  sun; 

Coral  is  far  more  red  than  her  lips'  red; 

If  snow  be  white,  why  then  her  breasts  are  dun; 

If  hairs  be  wires,  black  wires  grow  on  her  head. 

I  have  seen  rosea  damask'd,  red  and  white, 

But  no  such  roses  see  I  in  her  cheeks; 

And  in  some  perfumes  is  there  more  delight 

Than  in  the  breath  that  from  My  mistress  reeka. 

I  love  to  hear  her  speak,  yet  well  I  know 

That  music  hath  a  far  more  pleasing  sound; 

I  grant  I  never  saw  a  goddess  go; 

My  mistress,  when  she  walks,  treads  on  the  ground: 
And  yet,  by  heaven,  I  think  My  Love  as  rare 
As  any  she  belied  with  false  compare. 

In  this  stanza  the  falsities  used  by  contempora- 
neous writers  to  describe  feminine  attractions  are 
ingeniously  travestied  by  the  negative  accomplish- 
ments of  his  Mistress.  Her  eyes  are  unlike  the 
sun.  Coral  is  redder  than  her  lips.  If  nothing 
is  white  but  snow,  her  breasts  are  dun.  If  hairs 
are  wires,  black  wires  grow  on  her  head.  He  has 
never  seen  any  damask  roses  in  her  cheeks,  and 
has  smelled  perfumes  that  are  sweeter  than  her 
breath.  Music  is  more  pleasing  to  his  ear  than 
her  voice.     He  has  never  seen  a  goddess  move, 


212  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

but  his  Mistress  walks  on  the  ground  like  other 
people;  and  yet  " My  Love"  (the  drama)  is  as  rare 
and  beautiful  as  any  woman  whose  beauties  have 
been  belied  by  false  comparisons,  none  of  which 
could  add  a  single  grace  to  her  person. 


Sonnet  131. 
Thou  art  as  tyrannous,  so  as  Thon  art, 
As  those  whose  beauties  proudly  make  them  cruel; 
For  well  Thou  know'st,  to  My  dear  doting  heart 
Thou  art  the  fairest  and  most  precious  jewel. 
Yet,  in  good  faith,  some  say  that  Thee  behold. 
Thy  face  hath  not  the  power  to  make  love  groan: 
To  say  they  err  I  dare  not  be  so  bold, 
Although  I  swear  it  to  Myself  alone. 
And,  to  be  sure  that  is  not  false  I  swear, 
A  thousand  groans,  but  thinking  on  Thy  face, 
One  on  another's  neck,  do  witness  bear, 
Thy  black  is  fairest  in  My  judgment's  place. 
In  nothing  art  Thou  black  save  in  Thy  deeds, 
And  thence  this  slander,  as  I  think,  proceeds. 

His  picture  of  Thou  (Truth)  and  Thy  (Thought), 
as  delineated  in  the  character  of  Othello,  is  referred 
to  in  this  stanza.  Othello  in  his  jealous  rage  is 
as  tyrannical  in  conduct  as  others  of  fairer  mould 
would  be.  He  is  in  his  view  the  most  perfect  of 
all  the  characters  of  his  creation.  But  many  will 
pronounce  him  unnatural,  and  think  him  unfitted 
to  represent  the  character  of  a  lover.  He  will  not 
publicly  deny  this  opinion,  but  in  his  own  mind, 
*' Myself  (as  author),  he  is  certain  it  is  wrong, 
and  to  make  sure  of  that,  he  will  fill  the  play 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  213 

with  pathetic  scenes  illustrating  the  noble  quali- 
ties of  the  Moor,  and  a  thousand  vices,  which  he 
will  display  in  the  character  of  lago.  They  prove 
to  him  that  Othello  will  be  much  the  best  and  fair- 
est character,  as  he  is  only  black  in  his  deed  of 
slaying  Desdemona.  The  slander  or  censure  of 
the  drama  will  probably  be  attributable  to  that 
scene. 

SONITET   132. 

Thine  eyes  I  love,  and  they,  as  pitying  me, 

Knowing  Thy  heart  torments  Me  with  disdain, 

Have  put  on  black  and  loving  monmers  be, 

Looking  with  pretty  ruth  upon  My  pain; 

And  truly  not  the  morning  sun  of  heaven 

Better  becomes  the  grey  cheeks  of  the  East, 

Nor  that  full  star  that  ushers  in  the  even 

Doth  half  that  glory  to  the  sober  West, 

As  those  two  mourning  eyes  become  Thy  face. 

O,  let  it  then  as  well  beseem  Thy  heart 

To  mourn  for  Me,  since  mourning  doth  Thee  grace, 

And  suit  Thy  pity  like  in  every  part! 

Then  will  I  swear  beauty  herself  is  black, 
And  all  they  foul  that  Thy  complexion  lack. 

He  is  perplexed  to  know  how  to  reconcile  his 
subject  with  truth  in  its  delineation.  The  char- 
acter of  the  Moor  almost  surpasses  his  power.  His 
thoughts  are  so  varied  that  they  aggravate  him, 
and  the  complexion  he  has  chosen  for  Othello,  as 
well  as  the  subject,  presents  many  difficulties. 
But  as  a  theme  it  is  full  of  attractions  for  him; 
he  sees  it  only  in  the  light  of  truth  and  beauty, 
and  if  he  can  properly  portray  the  pathetic  parts 


214  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

of  the  drama,  as  he  can  see  them  in  the  several 
characters,  the  play  will  excel  all  others  that  he 
has  ever  written.  Othello  has  been  often  pro- 
nounced the  masterpiece  of  Shakespeare.  We 
here  see  that  opinion  confirmed  by  the  author 
himself,  and  learn,  also,  that  he  encountered 
greater  difficulty  in  composing  it  than  in  any 
other  of  the  great  dramas. 


Sonnet  133. 
Beshrew  that  heart  that  makes  My  heart  to  groan 
For  that  deep  wound  it  gives  My  friend  and  Mel 
Is  't  not  enough  to  torture  Me  alone, 
But  slave  to  slavery  My  sweet'st  friend  must  be  ? 
Me  from  Myself  Thy  cruel  eye  hath  taken, 
And  My  next  self  Thou  harder  hast  engross'd: 
Of  Him,  Myself,  and  Thee,  I  am  forsaken; 
A  torment  thrice  threefold  thus  to  be  cross'd. 
Prison  My  heart  in  Thy  steel  bosom's  ward, 
But  then  My  Friend's  heart  let  My  poor  heart  bail; 
Whoe'er  keeps  Me,  let  My  heart  be  his  guard; 
Thou  canst  not  then  use  rigor  in  My  gaol: 
And  yet  Thou  wilt;  for  I,  being  pent  in  Thee, 
Perforce  am  Thine,  and  all  that  is  in  Me.  ^ 

In  the  forty-fifth  stanza  the  poet  tells  us  that 
his  life  is  made  of  four.  The  allusion  is  to  the 
four  characters  of  the  Key,  —  I,  meaning  himself 
(Bacon),  Thou  (Truth),  Thy  (Thought),  and  You 
(Beauty).  In  order  to  comprehend  clearly  the 
details  of  the  transfer  which  he  makes  to  Shake- 
speare, in  this  and  the  three  following  stanzas, 
it  will  be   necessary   to   observe   these   parts   of 


TJ^  THE  sonni:ts.  215 

what  he  calls  his  life,  as  separate  impersonations, 
and  to  apply  the  distinctive  appellation  of  each  to 
the  changes  in  form  belonging  to  it;  thus,  I,  M}^, 
Mine,  Me,  signifies  Bacon;  Thou,  Thine,  Truth; 
Thy,  Thee,  Thyself,  Thought;  You,  Yours,  Your- 
self, Beauty;  Myself  means  Bacon  as  author;  My 
Friend  means  Shakespeare.  This  explanation  is 
repeated  here  for  the  convenience  of  the  reader. 

The  subtilety  of  meaning  conveyed  in  the  four 
following  stanzas,  the  abruptness  of  the  changes, 
and  the  compactness  of  expression  require  the 
closest  attention  to  enable  the  reader  to  compre- 
hend their  true  object.  There  is  ample  verge  in 
all  of  them  for  cavil.  They  describe  a  complete 
abandonment  of  the  dramas  by  Bacon  in  favor  of 
Shakespeare. 

"  That  heart,"  which  he  refers  to  as  making  his 
'*  heart  to  groan,''  is  his  own  heart  filled  with  fear, 
anxiety,  care,  and  suspicion,  lest  by  some  treach- 
ery, accident,  design,  or  oversight,  he  will  be 
exposed  as  the  author  of  the  dramas.  Influenced 
by  these  fears,  the  demands  of  public  office,  and 
his  speculative  and  philosophical  studies,  he  has 
determined  to  abandon  dramatic  composition. 
His  revenue  from  public  sources  amply  supplies 
his  wants.  His  prospects  for  advancement  arc 
flattering.  He  has  been  knighted,  and  ranks  fore- 
most among  the  courtiers  and  statesmen  of  the 
age.  He  is  the  confidant  and  adviser  of  the  king. 
Delightful  as  the  recreation  has  always  been  to 


210  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

delineate  nature,  truth,  and  beauty  in  character, 
it  has  ceased  to  be  of  use  to  him  as  a  pursuit,  is 
an  encroachment  upon  his  time,  and  an  inspirer 
of  his  fears.  Yet  the  thought  of  forsaking  it  causes 
liis  other  "  heart  to  groan."  That  other  heart 
("  my  heart  ")  is  his  regret  at  parting  forever  with 
the  fruit  of  those  mighty  labors,  which,  as  he 
says,  have  ever  been  his  "  best  of  love,"  and  for 
which  he  has  so  often  predicted  an  assured  immor- 
tality. While  he  lives  he  can  never  be  known  as 
their  author.  It  would  be  ruinous  to  all  his 
hopes,  possibly  fatal  to  his  life.  His  heart  groans 
at  the  thought,  and  is  deeply  wounded. 

He  feigns  to  consider  Shakespeare  a  sufferer 
from  the  same  "deep  wound."  "Is't  not  enough 
to  torture  Me  alone,"  he  asks,  "but  slave  to  slav- 
ery my  sweeVst  friend  must  be?"  How  Shake- 
speare becomes  the  "slave  to  slavery"  will  appear 
from  a  statement  of  the  facts  derived  from  the 
Sonnets.  Thou  (Truth),  Thy  (Thought),  and 
You  (Beauty)  are  the  creators  of  these  dramas. 
I  (Bacon),  have  been  your  instrument  or  slave  in 
producing  them.  Shakespeare  is  my  instrument 
or  slave  in  assuming  the  authorship  of  them. 
Therefore  I  being  the  slave  of  Thou,  Thy,  and 
You,  and  Shakespeare  being  my  slave,  he  is  the 
"slave  to  slavery." 

He  tells  in  the  accusation  of  Thy  (Thought),  in 
the  next  line,  what  is  meant  by  the  inquiry:  "Is  't 
not  enough  to  torture  Me  alone?"     "Me"  he  says, 


m  THE  SONNETS,  217 

"from  Myself  Thy  cruel  eye  hath  taken,"  that  is, 
Bacon  in  person  is  separated  from  Bacon  in  au- 
thorship. His  works,  which  reflect  his  real  self, 
can  never,  while  he  lives,  be  known  as  his. 

"And  my  next  self,"  he  continues  in  allusion  to 
Shakespeare,  "thou  harder  hast  engross'd."  In 
plainer  phrase,  by  consenting  to  be  known  as  the 
author,  Shakespeare  is  "engrossed"  or  convicted 
by  Thou  (Truth)  of  falsehood  or  living  a  lie.  The 
conclusion  is  arrived  at  in  the  next  line,  "  Of  him 
(Shakespeare),  Myself  (my  works),  and  Thee, 
(Thought),  I  (Bacon)  am  forsaken."  This  he 
declares  to  be  "a  torment  thrice  threefold  thus 
to  be  crossed."  This  may  be  explained  thus:  the 
first  threefold  refers  to  Him  (Shakespeare),  Him, 
He,  His;  the  second  to  Myself  (my  works),  Myself, 
Mine,  My;  the  third.  Thee  (Thought),  Thee,  Thy, 
Thyself.  This  makes  the  thrice  threefold  torment, 
as  all  those  have  forsaken  him. 

Having  thus  made  the  transfer,  he  proceeds  to 
give  directions  for  his  own  concealment:  "Prison 
My  heart  in  Thy  steel  bosom's  ward";  as  if  say- 
ing to  himself:  "Let  me  be  careful  to  secrete  in 
my  own  thoughts  all  knowledge  of  the  origin  of 
these  dramas."  "  But  then  My  Friend's  [Shake- 
speare's] heart  let  My  ^^oor  heart  bail."  Let  "My 
poor  heart"  (the  entire  works)  be  sufficient,  with 
Shakespeare's  name  as  author,  for  his  protection. 
"Whoe'er  keeps  Me,  let  My  heart  be  his  guard." 
Whatever  change  of  condition  may  occur  in  my 


218  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

life,  let  my  heart  (my  knowledge  of  the  authorship 
of  the  dramas)  still  be  concealed  as  the  guard  of 
Shakespeare.  "Thou  canst  not  then  use  rigor  in 
My  gaol."  By  pursuing  this  course  the  truth  will 
never  be  known,  and  nothing  can  occur  to  make 
such  revelation  necessary.  "And  yet  Thou  wilt; 
for  I,  being  pent  in  Thee,  perforce  am  Thine,  and 
all  that  is  in  Me."  This  is  simply  a  foil  to  the 
reader.  Of  course  Thou  (Truth)  will  tell  him  of 
it,  because  "perforce  "  it  is  in  "Thee,"  his  thoughts. 


SONITET   134. 

So,  now  I  have  confess'd  that  he  is  Thine, 
And  I  Myself  am  mortgag'd  to  Thy  Will, 
Myself  I'll  forfeit,  so  that  other  Mine 
Thou  wilt  restore,  to  be  My  comfort  still: 
But  Thou  wilt  not,  nor  he  will  not  be  free, 
For  Thou  are  covetous  and  he  is  kind; 
He  leard'd  but  surety -like  to  write  for  Me 
Under  that  bond  that  him  as  fast  doth  biad. 
The  statute  of  Thy  beauty  Thou  wilt  take. 
Thou  usurer,  that  put'st  forth  all  to  use, 
And  sue  a  friend  came  debtor  for  My  sake; 
So  him  I  lose  through  My  unkind  abuse. 

Him  have  I  lost;  Thou  hast  both  him  and  Me: 
He  pays  the  whole,  and  yet  am  I  not  free. 

In  this  stanza  he  follows  up  the  transfer  with 
an  allusion  to  his  confession,  as  he  terms  it,  in  the 
preceding  stanza,  that  Shakespeare  is  Thou's,  not 
that  Thou  is  Shakespeare's.  "And  I  myself  am 
mortgag'd  to  Thy  WILL."  He  has  given  the  au- 
thorship  of  his  works   (Myself)  to  "Will,"  and 


m  THE  SONNETS.  219 

personally  (I),  has  mortgaged  his  "heart"  as  a 
''guard"  against  exposing  the  transaction.  "My- 
self I  '11  forfeit  so  that  other  Mine  [Shakespeare] 
Thou  wilt  restore  to  be  My  comfort  still."  He 
will  forfeit  the  works,  if  Thou  wilt  restore  Shake- 
speare to  him,  with  the  revenue  that  he  has  been 
in  the  habit  of  receiving  from  him.  But  Thou, 
who  is  "covetous,"  and  Shakespeare,  who  is  kind 
to  Thou,  will  not  do  it,  and  Shakespeare  is  not 
"free"  or  willing  to  pay  any  longer.  This  closes 
the  assignment,  and  Shakespeare  becomes  thereby 
the  owner  as  well  as  recognized  author  of  the 
dramas. 

He  tells  us  in  the  next  two  lines  how  Shake- 
speare first  became  interested  with  him  in  the 
dramas.  "  He  learned  but  surety-like  to  write  for 
Me  under  that  bond  that  him  as  fast  doth  bind." 
Under  a  bond  of  mutual  confidence  and  sworn 
secrecy,  Shakespeare  "learned"  from  Bacon  that 
he,  upon  certain  conditions,  was  to  become  Ba- 
con's "surety"  against  exposure  as  the  author 
of  the  dramas,  by  assuming  the  authorship  him- 
self. This  announcement  makes  the  agreement 
between  them  complete,  for  we  have  seen  in  pre- 
vious stanzas  that  Shakespeare  was  recognized  as 
the  author;  that  Bacon  received  part  of  the  pro- 
ceeds; that  the  agreement  was  to  close  at  Bacon's 
option;  and  from  these  stanzas  under  considera- 
tion, we  learn  that  Bacon  abandons  both  author- 
ship and  compensation,  and  gives  all  to  Shake- 
speare. 


220  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

The  untruth  or  falsity  of  Shakespeare,  in  thus 
permitting  his  name  to  be  used  as  author,  is  pun- 
ished by  Thou  (Truth),  who,  by  virtue  of  Thy's 
(Thought's)  statute  of  Beauty,  which  is  but  another 
name  for  the  dramas,  sues  and  convicts  Shake- 
speare on  the  bond  which  he  made  with  Bacon. 
Bacon  loses  him  because  of  the  part  he  has  per- 
suaded him  to  act  ("through  my  unkind  abuse"), 
and  Shakespeare  as  Bacon's  surety  is  held  respon- 
sible to  Thou  (Truth)  for  the  ownership  and  au- 
thorship of  the  dramas  (''he  pays  the  whole"), 
yet  Bacon  is  liable  to  suspicion  and  exposure 
("yet  am  I  not  free"). 


Sonnet  135. 
Whoever  hath  her  wish,  Thou  hast  Thy  Will, 
Aud  Will  to  boot,  and  Will  in  overplus; 
More  than  enough  am  I  that  vex  Thee  still, 
To  Thy  sweet  will  making  addition  thus. 
Wilt  Thou,  whose  will  is  large  and  spacious, 
Not  once  vouchsafe  to  hide  My  will  in  thine  ? 
Shall  will  in  others  seem  right  gracious, 
And  in  My  will  no  fair  acceptance  shine  ? 
The  sea,  all  water,  yet  receives  rain  still 
And  in  abundance  addeth  to  his  store; 
So  Thou,  being  rich  in  Will,  add  to  thy  Will 
One  will  of  Mine,  to  make  Thy  large  Will  more. 

Let  no  unkind,  no  fair  beseechers  kill; 

Think  all  but  one,  and  Me  in  that  one  WilL 

He  tells  Thou  (Truth)  in  this  stanza  that  he 
has  obtained  possession  of  "Thy  [Thought's]  will" 
(the  entire  works)  and  "Will  to  boot"  (Shake- 


m  THE  SONNETS.  221 

speare),  and  of  "will  in  overplus''  (his  own  (Ba- 
con's) will),  of  which  last  will  he  says:  ''More 
than  enough  am  I  that  vex  Thee  [Thought]  still, 
to  Thy  sweet  will  [thy  works]  making  addition 
thus." 

With  the  fear  of  exposure  constantly  before 
him,  he  now  invokes  Thou's  aid.  "Wilt  Thou, 
whose  will  is  large  and  spacious,  not  once  vouch- 
safe to  hide  My  will  in  Thine?"  If  I  am  sus- 
pected, and  search  should  be  made  in  the  works 
for  evidence  to  implicate  mo,  let  them  not  find  it 
in  any  of  the  truths  I  may  have  written.  Like 
the  rain,  which  is  undistinguishable  from  the  sea 
when  it  falls  into  it,  so  let  my  will  be  undistin- 
guishable from  thine.  Add  my  will  to  the  will 
of  Thy,  and  thus  increase  thy  large  "Will"  (Shake- 
speare). Let  no  unkind  ones  (enemies  to  me),  "no 
fair  beseechers  [no  smooth,  cunning  courtiers] 
kill"  (destroy  my  prospects,  and  drive  me  into 
obscurity).  Think  of  the  dramas,  of  me,  and  of 
Shakespeare  as  all  one,  and  all  known  as  "  Will " 
(Shakespeare). 

Sonnet  136. 

If  Thy  soul  check  Thee  that  I  come  so  near, 
Swear  to  Thy  blind  soul  that  I  was  Thy  Will, 
And  Will,  Thy  soul  knows,  is  admitted  there; 
Thus  far  for  love  my  love-suit,  sweet,  fulfil. 
Will  will  fulfil  the  treasure  of  Thy  love, 
I  fill  it  full  with  wills,  and  My  will  one. 
In  things  of  great  receipt  with  ease  we  prove 
Among  a  number  one  is  reckon'd  none: 


222  BACOj^  and  SHAKESPEARE 

Then  in  the  number  let  Me  pass  untold, 
Though  in  Thy  store's  account  I  one  must  be; 
For  nothing  hold  Me,  so  it  please  Thee  hold 
That  nothing  Me,  a  something  sweet  to  Thee: 
Make  but  My  name  Thy  love,  and  love  that  still. 
And  then  Thou  lov'st  me,  —  for  My  name  is  Will. 

Pursuing  the  request  for  protection,  he  in  this 
stanza  addresses  Thy  (Thought),  "If  Thy  soul" 
(thy  love  of  truth)  **  check  Thee  that  I  come  so 
near"  (that  I  ask  you  thus  to  suppress  the  truth), 
"swear  to  Thy  blind  soul"  (tacitly  or  outwardly 
acknowledge)  "that  I  was  thy  Will;  Thy  soul" 
(thy  love  of  truth)  "knows  Will"  (Shakespeare) 
"is  admitted  there"  (to  thy  blind  soul).  Do  this 
for  love  of  me. 

This  request  is  followed  by  the  assurance  "  Will 
[Shakespeare]  will  fulfil  the  treasure  of  Thy  love." 
What  was  the  treasure  of  Thy  love?  In  the  twen- 
tieth stanza,  where  the  description  of  Thou  (Truth) 
is  given,  the  poet,  after  investing  Thou  with  every 
virtue,  closes  by  saying:  "Mine  be  Thy  love,  and 
Thy  love's  use  their  treasure"  (Thy  love  be  my 
love,  and  the  product  of  that  love  its  treasure). 
In  plainer  phrase,  the  dramas  I  have  composed 
are  Thy  love,  and  these  Shakespeare  now  owns 
and  "will  fulfil"  (manage)  as  he  pleases.  I  (Ba- 
con) fill  that  "  treasure  "  full  of  wills,  and  my  will 
one.  That  "  treasure,"  composed  of  all  the  char- 
acters delineated  in  the  dramas,  each  represent- 
ing a  single  will,  are  his,  and  my  will  is  among 


IN   THE  S0N27ETS.  223 

them.  It  is  my  will  they  should  be  thus  disposed 
of. 

He  now  tells  Shakespeare  that  ''in  things  of 
great  receipt/'  one  is  very  easily  proved  to  be 
none.  Therefore,  in  the  great  number  of  wills 
you  have  received,  and  which  you  are  to  claim  as 
your  own,  "  let  my  will  pass  untold  "  (don't  men- 
tion or  breathe  it,  but  consider  it  as  nothing).  If 
it  please  Thee  (Thought)  hold  ''that  nothing  as 
something  sweet  to  Thee."  As  he  (Bacon)  must 
be  one  in  Thy  store's  account.  Thy  (Thought)  can 
make  his  name  of  Bacon  his  love,  "  and  love  that 
still"  (love  it  in  quiet,  alone,  by  Thyself).  If  Thy 
will  do  that,  then  he  will  love  him  by  his  other 
name  that  he  has  chosen, — the  name  of  "Will" 
(as  provided  at  the  close  of  the  last  and  the  be- 
ginning of  this  stanza). 

In  the  quarto  of  1609  the  sixth  line  of  this  Son- 
net reads:  "I  fill  it  full  of  wills."  Commentators 
have  changed  this  reading  to  "Ay,  fill  it  full  of 
wills."  This  latter  version  makes  Shakespeare 
instead  of  Bacon  "fill  it  full  of  wills."  "I"  is 
undoubtedly  correct. 

Why  should  the  writer  of  these  four  stanzas 
have  used  so  much  ingenuity  in  disclosing  a  sim- 
ple transaction,  if  not  that  it  might  sooner  or 
later  inform  the  world  that  he  was  the  true  au- 
thor of  the  dramas?  He  has  foreshadowed  in  a 
hundred  lines  of  this  poem  the  immortal  name 
they  would  win  for  their  author;  but  the  require- 


224  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

ments  of  his  position  denied  him  that  fame  dur- 
ing his  own  life.  Posthumous  fame  was  all  he 
could  anticipate,  and  for  this  he  prepared  by  con- 
cealing the  true  history  of  the  dramas,  under  a 
key  in  this  poem,  and  leaving  it  "to  foreign  na- 
tions and  the  next  ages." 

The  fame  and  renown  which  Bacon  sought  for 
his  personal  enjoyment,  he  expected  to  realize 
from  the  high  positions  he  filled  in  public  life. 
His  philosophy  was  for  posterity.  He  knew  that 
would  give  enduring  life  to  his  memory.  In  a 
letter  to  the  Bishop  of  Winchester,  after  his  fall, 
he  says: — 

"As  for  my  essays  and  some  other  particulars 
of  that  nature,  I  count  them  but  as  the  recreation 
of  my  other  studies,  and  in  that  sort  I  propose  to 
continue  them,  though  I  am  not  ignorant  that 
those  writings  would,  with  less  pain  and  embrace- 
ment,  perhaps,  yield  more  lustre  and  reputation 
to  my  name  than  those  which  I  have  in  hand; 
but  I  count  the  use  that  a  man  should  seek  of  the 
publishing  of  his  own  writings  before  his  death 
to  be  but  an  untimely  anticipation  of  that  which 
is  proper  to  follow  a  man,  and  not  go  along  with 
him." 

As  if  supplementary  to  this  thought,  we  find  in 
his  will  the  following  strikingly  prophetic  pas- 
sage: "My  name  and  memory  I  leave  to  men's 
charitable  speeches,  foreign  nations,  and  the  next 
ages."  His  avowed  works  gave  no  occasion  for 
these  utterances.     They  had  passed  the  ordeal  of 


IN  TUB  SONNETS.  225 

public  scrutiny,  and  in  "them  his  name  and  mem- 
i.)vy  were  immortal.  He  knew  there  was  something 
more,  trusted  to  time,  which  future  ages  in  the 
light  of  these  Sonnets  might  reveal;  but  when 
that  revelation  would  be  made,  and  whether  in  his 
own  or  some  foreign  nation,  was  hid  from  his 
view,  and  he  left  it  for  time  to  disclose.  If  it 
were  not  so,  and  he  really  had  no  desire  that 
future  generations  should  know  him  as  the  writer 
of  these  immortal  dramas,  why  did  he  write  the 
Sonnets?  As  a  mere  riddle  for  posterity  to  solve, 
they  have  thus  far  only  served  to  puzzle  the  brains 
of  all  writers  and  readers,  and  stain  the  memory 
of  their  imputed  author.  Viewed  in  any  other 
light  than  that  in  which  the  Key  unfolds  them, 
they  defy  all  efforts  to  give  them  coherency,  dig- 
nity, or  even  decency;  but  with  this  Key  to  their 
meaning,  they  become  a  marvellous  history,  and 
most  impressive  appeal  to  the  world  for  justice  to 
the  memory  of  one  of  the  greatest  benefactors  of 
our  race.  It  was  with  the  belief  that  sooner  or 
later  they  would  be  deciphered,  that  he  wrote  the 
transfer  to  Shakespeare  in  this  and  the  three  pre- 
ceding Sonnets.  It  is  noticeable  that  throughout 
the  Sonnets  the  poet  wraps  every  passage  contaiu- 
ing  a  fact  in  language  or  imagery  of  either  joyful 
or  passionate  import.  He  never  tires  of  express- 
ing his  wonder  and  delight  at  the  power  of  You 
(Beauty),  or  his  grave,  thoughtful,  and  loving 
appreciation  of  Thou  (Truth).  How  tender  and 
15 


226  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEAHE 

parental  is  his  regard  for  "  My  Love  "  (his  dramas) 
and  how  frequent  and  assuring  to  the  three  are 
his  promises  of  immortality.  "  My  Mistress  "  (his 
tragedies),  the  dearest  portion  of  his  dramas,  he 
endows  with  passions,  crimes,  and  cunning,  illus- 
trative of  predominating  traits  in  character.  If 
he  supposes  a  difficulty  in  composition,  he  charges 
it  to  Thou,  You,  or  himself.  All  his  disclosures 
are  only  to  be  made  through  the  strangest  and 
most  ingenious  compound  of  imagery,  metaphor, 
allegory,  and  narrative. 


Sonnet  137. 
Thou  blind  fool,  Love,  what  dost  Thon  to  Mine  eyes. 
That  they  behold,  and  see  not  what  they  see  ? 
They  know  what  beauty  is,  see  where  it  lies. 
Yet  what  the  best  is  take  the  worst  to  be. 
If  eyes  corrupt  by  over-partial  looks 
Be  anchored  in  the  bay  where  all  men  ride. 
Why  of  eyes'  falsehood  hast  Thou  forged  hooks. 
Whereto  the  judgment  of  My  heart  is  tied  ? 
Why  should  My  heart  think  that  a  several  plot 
Which  My  heart  knows  the  wide  world's  common  place  f 
Or  Mine  eyes,  seeing  this,  say  this  is  not. 
To  put  fair  truth  upon  so  foul  a  face  ? 

In  things  right  true  My  heart  and  eyes  have  err'd. 
And  to  this  false  plague  are  they  now  transferrd. 

In  this  stanza  he  describes  the  jealousy  with 
which  he  intends  to  invest  Othello,  by  a  number 
of  questions  addressed  to  Love,  which  he  charges 
with  having  led  him  away  from  the  truth.  Why, 
in  the  beauty  and  simplicity  of  Desdemona,  does 


m  THE  SONNETS.  227 

he  not  see  her  as  he  did  at  first  ?  He  knows  she 
is  beautiful  in  her  person,  but  that  which  he  most 
loved,  her  pure  and  virtuous  character,  now  ap- 
pears vile  and  depraved.  So  long  as  men  are  nat- 
urally tempted  by  the  personal  charms  of  feminine 
beauty  and  complaisance,  wherever  seen,  why 
should  he  make  that  common  attraction  the  sub- 
ject of  his  work  ?  Why  should  the  plot  he  is  de- 
veloping appear  singular  to  him,  when  he  knows 
it  is  one  of  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life  ?  Why, 
seeing  that,  should  he  say  to  himself,  that  truth  in 
character  is  entirely  incompatible  with  this  con- 
duct in  beauty  ?  His  observation  and  reflection 
are  both  at  fault. 

Sonnet  138. 
When  My  Love  swears  that  she  is  made  of  truth, 
I  do  believe  her,  though  I  know  she  lies, 
That  she  might  think  Me  some  untutor'd  youth, 
Unlearned  in  the  world's  false  subtleties. 
Thu3  vainly  thinking  that  she  thinks  Mo  young, 
Although  she  knows  My  days  are  past  the  best, 
Simply  I  credit  her  false-speaking  tongue; 
On  both  sides  thus  is  simple  truth  suppresa'd. 
But  wherefore  says  she  not  she  is  unjust  ? 
And  wherefore  say  not  I  that  I  am  old  ? 
0,  love's  best  habit  is  in  seeming  trust. 
And  age  in  love  loves  not  to  have  years  told; 
Therefore  I  lie  with  her  and  she  with  me. 
And  in  our  faults  by  lies  we  flatter'd  be. 

He  thinks  he  has  followed  truth  and  nature  in 
the  delineation  of  jealousy,  yet  done  great  violence 
to  truth  in  the  characterization  of  the  drama  (My 


228  BACON  AND  SHAKE8PEARE 

Love).  The  drama  might  convey  the  impression 
that  he  is  ignorant  of  human  nature,  or  that, 
though  past  middle  life,  he  is  too  young,  too  fresh 
in  his  knowledge  of  the  deceits  and  subtleties  of 
life,  to  depict  the  passion  of  jealousy  truly.  He 
will  submit  to  that  opinion,  but  adhere  to  his  plan. 
If  that  is  a  mistake,  he  will  love  it  all. the  same, 
and  the  dramas  will  exhibit  his  fault,  but  not  rob 
him  of  his  pleasure.  The  falsehoods  he  creates 
will  best  represent  the  faults  of  his  characters. 


SOITNET  139. 
O,  call  not  Me  to  justify  the  wrong 
That  Thy  unkindness  lays  upon  My  heart; 
Wound  Me  not  with  Thine  eye,  but  with  Thy  tongue; 
Use  power  with  power,  and  slay  Me  not  by  art. 
Tell  Me  Thou  lov'st  elsewhere,  but  in  My  sight, 
Dear  heart,  forbear  to  glance  Thine  eye  aside; 
What  need'st  Thou  wound  with  cunning  when  Thy  might 
Is  more  than  My  o'er-press'd  defence  can  bide  ? 
Let  Me  excuse  Thee:  ah  !  my  Love  well  knows 
Her  pretty  looks  have  been  Mine  enemies, 
And  therefore  from  My  face  she  turns  My  foes. 
That  they  elsewhere  might  dart  their  injuries; 
Yet  do  not  so,  but  since  I  am  near  slain. 
Kill  Me  outright  with  looks  and  rid  My  pain. 

He  will  not  justify  the  wrong  with  which  his 
thoughts  of  human  misery  and  distress  have 
filled  his  heart.  Thou  (Truth),  instead  of  blam- 
ing him,  and  using  art  and  trickery  to  dissuade 
him  from  his  work,  should  convince  him  by  argu- 
ment, "  use  power  with  power.''    If  Thou's  view 


IN   TH^  SONNETS.  229 

differ  from  liis,  yet  Thou  must  stand  by  him  and 
give  him  true  counsel,  and  no  cunningly  devised 
expedients,  for  he  is  perplexed  to  know  how  to 
reconcile  his  thoughts  with  truth  in  the  progress 
of  the  work.  All  the  beauty  and  interest  he  has 
given  to  the  love  of  Othello  is  now  changed  to 
jealousy  and  hate,  and  will  end  in  murder.  The 
difiBculty  of  depicting  this  in  character  he  is  prone 
to  think  surpasses  his  skill. 


Sonnet  140. 
Be  wise  as  Tlion  art  cruel;  do  not  press 
My  tongue-tied  patience  with  too  much  disdain, 
Lest  sorrow  lend  me  words,  and  words  express 
The  manner  of  My  pity-wanting  pain. 
If  I  might  teach  Thee  wit,  better  it  were. 
Though  not  to  love,  yet,  Love,  to  tell  me  so, 
As  testy  sick  men,  when  their  deaths  be  near, 
No  news  but  health  from  their  physicians  know; 
For  if  I  should  despair,  I  should  grow  mad, 
And  in  My  madness  might  speak  ill  of  Thee: 
Now  this  ill-wresting  world  is  grown  so  bad, 
Mad  slanderers  by  mad  ears  believed  be. 

That  I  may  not  be  so,  nor  Thou  belied, 

Bear  Thine  eyes  straight,  though  Thy  proud  heart  go  wide. 

In  this  stanza  he  determines  the  limit  which  he 
will  give  to  Othello's  grief,  by  causing  Desdemona 
to  give  him  the  proper  advice.  It  is  as  if  one  actor 
representing  Desdemona  was  advising  the  repre- 
sentative of  Othello.  She  says  to  him:  "Don't 
overact  and  make  yourself  too  offensive  in  your 
charges  and  epithets.     Such  a  course  would  make 


230  BACON  AND  8HAKESPEAME 

my  part,  which  is  remarkable  for  mildness  and 
submission,  untrue.  To  make  it  correspond  to 
your  severe  reproof,  unqualified  by  love,  it  would 
be  natural  for  me  in  my  extremity  of  sorrow 
to  betray  in  words  all  that  part  of  the  charge 
against  me  which,  by  being  concealed,  is  the 
strongest  feature  in  the  drama.  My  idea  is,  that 
you  should  affect  love  for  me  to  the  last.  As  men 
when  near  death  hear  nothing  but  encouragement 
from  their  physicians,  so  should  it  appear  that, 
with  a  cruel  death  near,  I  am  not  unloved  by 
my  slayer.  Without  this  it  would  be  natural  for 
me  in  my  despair  to  make  charges  against  you 
(Othello),  and  the  audience  by  believing  them 
would  lose  the  charm  of  the  play.  That  this 
may  not  occur,  nor  truth  be  belied,  don't  devi- 
ate from  a  truthful  delineation,  whatever  your 
thoughts  may  be." 

Sonnet  141. 
In  faith,  I  do  not  love  Thee  with  Mine  eyei^ 
For  they  in  Thee  a  thousand  errors  note; 
But 't  is  My  heart  that  loves  what  they  despise, 
Who  in  despite  of  view  is  pleas 'd  to  dote; . 
Nor  are  Mine  ears  with  Thy  tongue's  tune  delighted. 
Nor  tender  feeling,  to  base  touches  prone, 
Nor  taste,  nor  smell,  desire  to  be  invited 
To  any  sensual  feast  with  Thee  alone: 
But  My  five  wits  nor  My  five  senses  can 
Dissuade  one  foolish  heart  from  serving  Thee, 
Who  leaves  unsway'd  the  likeness  of  a  man, 
Thy  proud  heart's  slave  and  vassal  wretch  to  be; 
Only  My  plague  thus  far  I  count  My  gain. 
That  she  that  makes  Me  sin  awards  Me  pain. 


m  TEE  SONNETS.  231 

The  errors,  crimes,  and  vices  that  he  has  de- 
picted in  Othello  are  not  what  he  admires.  It  is 
the  picture  they  present  to  his  heart.  His  love  for 
that  is  the  love  of  a  dotard.  The  words  have  no 
charm  for  his  ear,  nor  is  he  attracted  by  the  tender 
feeling  of  Othello  transformed  into  jealousy.  No 
sensual  feeling  is  aroused  by  the  beauty  of  tlic 
Tragedy,  but  neither  his  wits  nor  his  senses  can 
turn  his  thoughts  from  the  man  they  have  created. 
He  sees  in  him  the  pure  nobility  of  nature  trans- 
formed by  jealousy  into  a  slave  and  demon,  and  in 
Desdemona  a  lovely  woman,  a  triumph  in  por- 
trayal, grossly  belied  and  foully  murdered. 


SOITOET  142. 
Love  is  My  sin  and  Thy  dear  virtue  hate, 
Hate  of  My  sin,  grounded  on  sinful  loving: 
O,  but  with  Mine  compare  Thou  Thine  own  state, 
And  Thou  shalt  find  it  merits  not  reproving; 
Or,  if  it  do,  not  from  those  lips  of  Thine, 
That  have  profan'd  their  scarlet  ornaments 
And  seal'd  false  bonds  of  love  as  oft  as  Mine, 
Robb'd  others*  beds*  revenues  of  their  rents. 
Be  it  lawful  I  love  Thee,  as  Thou  lov'st  Those 
Whom  Thine  eyes  woo  as  Mine  importiine  Theej 
Root  pity  in  Thy  heart,  that  when  it  grows 
Thy  pity  may  deserve  to  pitied  be. 

If  Thou  dost  seek  to  have  what  Thou  dost  hide. 
By  self-example  may'st  Thou  be  denied  1 

Ho  has  in  this  Tragedy  striven  to  show  how  a 
pure  and  unstained  love,  between  husband  and 
wife,  may  be  ruined  by  hate  inspired  by  the  hus- 


232  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

band's  jealousy,  and  end  in  the  destruction  of  both. 
And  Thou  (Truth),  as  guilty  as  himself  in  making 
false  vows,  breaking  marital  ties,  and  violating 
nuptial  faith,  has  no  reason  to  reprove  his  work. 
lie  has  not  violated  Truth  more  than  Thou  (Truth) 
himself  has  violated  it  in  the  thoughts  he  has  por- 
trayed, which,  though  harsh,  have  been  alleviated 
by  pity;  and  that  pity  has  in  its  turn  wrought 
pity  for  Othello's  misery.  If  Truth  seeks  to  reveal 
what  he  has  kept  concealed,  the  real  truth  of  the 
purity  of  Desdemona,  and  the  cause  of  Othello's 
jealousy,  prematurely,  his  own  example  should 
restrain  him. 

SoiJNirr  143. 
Lo!  as  a  cheerful  housewife  runs  to  catch 
One  of  her  feather'd  creatures  broke  away, 
8et3  down  her  babe,  and  makes  all  swift  dispatch 
In  pursuit  of  the  thing  she  would  have  stay. 
Whilst  her  neglected  child  holds  her  in  chase, 
Cries  lo  catch  her  whose  busy  care  is  bent 
To  follow  that  which  flies  before  her  face, 
Not  prizing  her  poor  infant's  discontent; 
So  run'st  Thou  after  that  which  flies  from  Thee, 
Whilst  I,  Thy  babe,  chase  Thee  afar  behind: 
But  if  Tliou  catch  Ihy  hops,  turn  back  to  Me, 
And  play  the  mother's  part,  kiss  me,  bo  kind; 
So  will  I  pray  that  Tliou  may'st  have  Thy  Will, 
If  Thou  turn  back,  and  My  loud  crying  stilL 

The  closing  scene  of  Othello  perplexed  the  au- 
thor W'ith  the  idea  that  he  had  not  been  entirely 
true  to  nature  in  the  delineation  of  character.  He 
illustrates  the  doubt  by  a  figure.     Thou  (Truth), 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  233 

the  superintending  genius  of  all  his  writings,  is 
likened  to  a  careful  housewife,  who  is  regardful  of 
all  matters  appertaining  to  the  household.  Her 
babe  bears  the  same  relation  to  her  that  the  author 
of  Othello  bears  to  Thou.  The  doubt  is  illustrated 
by  the  chicken  that  has  escaped.  Thou  (Truth), 
who  forsakes  the  author,  like  the  mother  who 
leaves  her  child  to  reclaim  the  chicken,  is  in  hot 
pursuit  after  the  doubt.  The  author,  like  the 
babe,  loudly  crying,  follows  Thee  (his  own 
thoughts)  far  behind.  Which  is  right?  This  is 
the  question.  Thee  (his  own  thoughts)  suggests 
that  the  scene  will  be  more  effective  if  worked  up 
slowly,  but  Thou  (Truth)  thinks  it  should  be  rapid. 
Should  Othello,  in  his  anger,  hate,  and  jealousy, 
have  slain  Desdemona  on  the  instant,  after  being 
convinced  of  her  guilt?  or  was  it  natural  for  him 
to  wait,  and  do  it  deliberately  after  his  passion 
had  cooled?  Truth  favors  the  former  view,  and 
v/ould  satisfy  the  doubt  at  once,  but  the  author 
selects  the  latter,  and  is  represented  as  crying  for 
truth  to  return;  in  other  words,  by  arou&ing  pity 
for  Othello,  he  makes  the  scene  conformable  to 
nature,  and  thus  *'Thy  Wiir'  (Shakespeare,  the 
imputed  autliop,  the  only  author  known  to  the 
world)  is  reinstated  in  Thou's  favor. 

Sonnet  144, 
Two  loves  I  have  of  comfort  and  despair, 
Which  like  two  spirits  do  suggest  Mo  still; 
The  better  angel  is  a  man  right  fair, 
The  worser  spirit  a  woman  color 'd  ill. 


234  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEAIiE 

To  win  Me  soon  to  hell,  My  female  evil 

Tempteth  My  better  angel  from  My  side, 

And  would  corrupt  My  saint  to  be  a  devil, 

Wooing  his  purity  with  her  foul  pride. 

And  whether  that  My  angel  be  turn'd  fiend 

Suspect  I  may,  yet  not  directly  tell; 

But  being  both  from  Me,  both  to  each  friend, 

I  guess  one  angel  in  another's  hell: 

Yet  this  shall  I  ne'er  know,  but  live  in  doubt, 
Till  My  bad  angel  fire  My  good  one  out. 

The  two  angels  in  this  stanza  are  Macbeth  and 
his  wife.  Macbeth  is  the  "better  angel,"  and  Lady- 
Macbeth  the  "woman  color'd  ill."  Lady  Macbeth 
is  the  tempter.  By  her  influence  Macbeth  is  cor- 
rupted and  led  into  crime.  The  natural  goodness 
of  his  nature  is  overcome  by 'her  pride  and  strength 
of  character,  and  the  evil  ambition  of  both.  The 
Tragedy  is  not  advanced  sufiiciently  to  enable  the 
author  to  forecast  the  fate  of  Macbeth.  He  sus- 
pects what  it  may  be,  but  is  yet  uncertain.  As 
the  creation  is  his  own,  and  the  two  angels  are 
friends,  he  guesses  that  one  is  enmeshed  in  the 
toils  of  the  other.  Of  this,  however,  he  will  not 
be  positive  until  the  tragedy  is  completed. 


Sonnet  145. 

Those  lips  that  Love's  own  hand  did  make 
Breathed  forth  the  sound  that  said  "  I  hate' 
To  Me  that  languish'd  for  her  sake; 
But  when  she  saw  My  woeful  state," 
Straight  in  her  heart  did  mercy  come. 
Chiding  that  tongue  that  ever  sweet 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  235 

Was  us'cl  in  giving  gentle  doom, 
And  taught  it  thus  anew  to  greet. 
**  I  hate  "  she  altered  with  an  end, 
That  foUow'd  it  as  gentle  day- 
Doth  follow  night,  who  like  a  fiend 
From  heaven  to  hell  is  flown  away; 
**I  hate  "  from  hate  away  she  threw, 
And  sav'd  My  life,  saying  * '  not  you. " 

The  hatred  excited  by  the  crimes  of  Macbeth 
and  his  wife  is  portrayed  by  the  whisper  of  Love 
in  his  (the  author's)  ear  of  the  words  "  I  hate,"  in 
the  midst  of  his  work.  She  is  moved  with  pity 
at  the  sight  of  woe  and  horror  he  is  depicting. 
Having  been  kind  and  gentle  on  former  visits 
when  he  was  writing,  she  greets  him  anew  with 
the  same  words  in  milder  tone,  which  dispels  all 
dread  of  her  displeasure  when  he  hears  the  quali- 
fication, "not  you."  Being  exonerated,  his  "life" 
(Macbeth)  is  saved,  and  the  tragedy  continued. 

Sonnet  146. 
Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  My  sinful  earth, 
Press'd  by  these  rebel  powers  that  Thee  array. 
Why  dost  Thou  pine  within  and  suffer  dearth, 
Painting  Thy  outward  walls  so  costly  gay  ? 
Wliy  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a  lease, 
Dost  Thou  upon  Thy  fading  mansion  spend  ? 
Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  this  excess, 
Eat  up  Thy  charge  ?  is  this  Thy  body's  end? 
Then,  soul,  live  Thou  upon  Thy  servant's  loss, 
And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  Thy  store; 
Buy  terras  divine  in  selling  hours  of  dross; 
Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no  more: 

So  shalt  Thou  feed  on  Death,  that  feeds  on  men, 
And  Death  once  dead,  there  's  no  more  dying  then. 


236  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

The  literal  meaning  of  the  first  line  of  this 
stanza  is,  "  Macbeth,  the  central  figure  in  my  trag- 
edy." He  is  represented  at  that  stage  of  the 
drama  where  his  castle  is  invested  by  the  army  of 
Malcolm  and  Macdufi*.  He  is  suffering  within 
from  fear,  and  making  a  show  of  ability  to  resist, 
by  the  display  of  his  banners  on  the  outward  walls. 
This  show  and  bravado  will  avail  nothing,  and 
the  thought  of  death  and  its  consequences  afflicts 
him.  Aggravated  by  his  servant's  report  of  the 
enemy's  force,  he  gathers  fresh  courage  by  recall- 
ing the  "terms  divine," — the  promise  of  the 
witches  that  he  need  not  fear  till  Birnam  Wood  do 
come  to  Dunsinane,  and  that  he  should  not  yield 
to  one  of  woman  born  (the  previous  promises  of 
the  same  witches,  foretelling  his  greatness,  which 
had  been  confirmed).  He  ceases  to  have  faith  in 
human  power,  and  relies  entirely  upon  the  witches' 
prophecy,  which  he  deems  of  divine  origin.  He 
slays  young  Siward,  which  strengthens  his  faith 
in  his  invulnerability.  The  picture  is  the  same 
as  the  one  more  fully  detailed  in  the  tragedy. 

Sonnet  147. 
My  Love  is  as  a  fever,  longing  still 
For  that  which  longer  nurseth  the  disease, 
Feeding  on  that  which  doth  preserve  the  ill, 
The  uncertain  sickly  appetite  to  please. 
My  reason,  the  physician  to  My  Love, 
Angry  that  his  prescriptions  are  not  kept. 
Hath  left  Me,  and  I  desperate  now  approve, 
Desire  is  death,  which  physic  did  except. 


m  THE  SONJ^ETS.  237 

Past  cure  I  am,  now  reason  is  past  care, 

And  frantic-mad  with  evermore  unrest; 

My  thoughts  and  My  discourse  as  madmen's  axe. 

At  random  from  the  truth  vainly  express'd; 

For  I  have  sworn  Thee  fair  and  thought  Thee  bright, 
Who  art  as  black  as  hell,  as  dark  as  night. 

His  Love  (the  Tragedy)  is  yet  in  progress.  The 
death  of  Lady  Macbeth  must  furnish  some  counter- 
poise to  the  crimes  that  have  stained  her  life. 
He  likens  his  Love  (the  Tragedy)  to  a  fever  still 
in  progress,  feeding  upon  all  the  disturbances 
which  aggravate  its  intensity.  He  is  depicting 
Lady  Macbeth.  Her  reason  has  fled.  Her  phy- 
sician can  be  of  no  service,  death,  which  defies 
medicine,  being  near.  She  is  frantic  for  want  of 
rest.  She  talks  madly  of  her  life,  referring  in 
random  expressions  to  her  foul  and  bloody  crimes. 
Without  exciting  some  pity  for  her  in  the  audi- 
ence that  witness  the  performance,  nothing  can 
make  her  realize  the  personal  attractions  of  beauty 
and  intellect  with  which  he  intended  to  endow  her. 
She  will  be  only  black  in  crime  and  dark  in 
delirium,  without  sympathy,  and  detested  for  her 
infamy. 

Sonnet  148.  / 

O  Me,  what  eyes  hath  love  put  in  My  head, 
Which  have  no  correspondence  with  true  sight  I 
Or,  if  they  have,  where  is  My  judgment  fled, 
That  censures  falsely  what  they  see  aright  ? 
If  that  be  fair  whereon  My  false  eyes  dote, 
What  means  the  world  to  say  it  is  not  so  ? 


238  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

If  it  be  not,  then  Love  doth  well  denote 

Love's  eye  is  not  so  true  as  all  men's  no. 

How  can  it  ?    0,  how  can  love's  eye  be  true, 

That  is  so  vex'd  with  watching  and  with  tears  ? 

No  marvel  then,  thougli  I  mistake  My  view; 

The  sun  itself  sees  not  till  heaven  clears. 

O  cunning  Love!  with  tears  Thou  keep'st  Me  blind, 
Lest  eyes  well-seeing  Thy  foul  faults  should  find. 

The  self-criticism  is  continued.  In  this  stanza 
he  contrasts  the  criminality  of  the  character  he 
has  drawn  in  Macbeth  with  trufh.  There  is  no 
correspondence  between  them.  His  judgment 
condemns  the  crimes  of  Macbeth  and  his  wife, 
yet  he  delights  in  portraying  them.  Why  should 
the  world  condemn  them?  If  he  is  infatuated, 
then  Love  is  untrue,  and  the  world  is  right.  How 
can  that  Love  be  true  which  is  exhibited  in  delir- 
ium and  tears?  It  will  not  surprise  him  if  he  is 
in  error.  The  sun  sees  not  the  earth  till  the 
heavens  are  clear,  so  he  will  not  see  his  error  un- 
til his  work  is  done.  He  will  be  blind  to  the 
faults  of  Lady  Macbeth,  and  depict  her  delirium 
and  watching  lest  the  world  see  her  infamy  only. 


Sonnet  149. 
Canst  Thou,  O  cruel,  say  I  love  Thee  not, 
When  I  against  Myself  with  Thee  partake? 
Do  I  not  think  on  Thee,  when  I  forgot 
Am  of  Myself,  all  tyrant,  for  Thy  sake? 
Who  hateth  Thee  that  I  do  call  My  friend  ? 
On  whom  frown 'st  Thou  that  I  do  fawn  upon  ? 
Nay,  if  Thou  lower 'st  on  Me,  do  I  not  spend 
Revenge  upon  Myself  with  present  moan  ? 


m  THE  SONNETS.  239 

What  merit  do  I  in  Myself  respect, 
That  is  so  proud  thy  service  to  despise, 
When  all  My  best  doth  worship  Thy  defect. 
Commanded  by  the  motion  of  Thine  eyes  ? 

But,  love,  hate  on,  for  now  I  know  Thy  mind; 

Those  that  can  see  Thou  lov'st,  and  I  am  blind. 

In  this  stanza  all  the  allusions  point  to  the 
tragedy  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra.  Substitute  An- 
tony and  Cleopatra  for  the  writer,  and  Thee  as 
tlio  interlocutors  in  the  stanza,  and  the  conver- 
sation would  assume  a  form  after  this  manner: 
Antony  asks  Cleopatra:  "How  can  you  be  so 
cruel  as  to  say  I  do  not  love  you,  when,  against  all 
the  teaching  of  my  better  nature,  I  partake  with 
you  in  sin?  Do  I  not  forget  myself  in  thinking 
of  you  and  giving  you  all  my  affections?  Who 
hates  you  that  is  my  friend?  Whom  do  you  hate 
that  I  love?  When  you  chide  me,  am  I  not  sub- 
missive to  your  will?  Have  I  any  merit  of  re- 
nown that  is  not  devoted  to  your  service,  while 
thus  infatuated  with  your  personal  charms  and 
power  ?^'  He  represents  this  condition  of  the 
leading  characters  as  the  limit  of  disclosure  in  the 
tragedy,  and  himself  blind  as  to  what  will  follow. 


Sonnet  150. 
0,  from  what  power  hast  Thou  this  powerful  might 
With  insufficiency  My  heart  to  sway  ? 
To  make  Me  give  the  lie  to  My  true  sight, 
And  swear  that  brightness  doth  not  grace  the  day  ? 
Whence  hast  Thou  this  becoming  of  things  ill, 
That  in  the  very  refuse  of  Thy  deeds 


240  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

There  is  such  strength  and  warrantise  of  skill 

That,  in  My  mind,  Thy  worst  all  best  exceeds  ? 

Who  taught  Thee  how  to  make  Me  love  Thee  more 

The  more  I  hear  and  see  just  cause  of  hate  ? 

O,  though  I  love  what  others  do  abbor. 

With  others  Thou  shouldst  not  abhor  My  statej 

If  Thy  unworthiness  rais'd  love  in  Me, 

More  worthy  I  to  be  belov'd  of  Thee. 

The  conversation  between  the  writer  and  Thee 
in  this  stanza,  resumed,  as  a  fresh  appeal  of  An- 
tony to  Cleopatra,  would  reproduce  the  thoughts 
expressed  between  them  in  similar  form.  "  Whence 
do  you  get  this  power  to  sway  my  heart  with 
insufficiency,  and  cause  me  to  belie  my  own  con- 
victions of  truth?  Why  make  me  swear  that  your 
Egyptian  face  is  more  beautiful  than  one  of  fairer 
hue?  Why  is  it  that  you  have  power  to  make  e,vil 
so  attractive  that  your  worst  acts  in  my  eyes  exceed 
the  best?  Who  taught  you  how  to  make  me  love 
you  more,  the  more  I  see  just  cause  to  hate  you? 
My  countrymen  abhor  me,  and  would  deprive  me 
of  my  renown  for  loving  you;  but  you  should  not 
join  with  them  in  that  hatred,  nor  should  you 
repel  me  from  you,  because  I  am  enamored  of  your 
personal  charms." 

Sonnet  151. 
Love  is  too  young  to  know  what  conscience  is; 
Yet  who  knows  not  conscience  is  born  of  love  ? 
Then,  gentle  cheater,  urge  not  My  amiss. 
Lest  guilty  of  My  faults  Thy  sweet  self  prove; 
For,  Thou  betraying  me,  I  do  betray 
My  nobler  part  to  My  gross  body's  treason; 


ly  THE  SONNETS.  241 

My  soul  cloth  tell  My  body  that  he  may 
Triumph  in  love;  flesh  stays  no  farther  reason; 
But,  rising  at  Thy  name,  doth  point  out  Thee 
As  his  triumphant  livize.     Proud  of  this  pride, 
He  is  contented  Thy  poor  drudge  to  be, 
To  stand  in  Thy  affairs,  fall  by  Thy  side. 
No  want  of  conscience  hold  it  that  I  call 
Her  **  love  "  for  whose  dear  love  I  rise  and  fall. 

Continuing  the  address  to  Cleopatra  in  this 
stanza,  Antony  pleads  that  his  love  for  her  is  too 
fresh,  too  strong,  to  be  under  any  conscientious 
restraint.  Yet  who  knows  but  conscience  is  born 
of  love,  and  if  so,  why  should  you  remind  me  of 
having  violated  it,  when  you,  my  ideal  of  love, 
may  prove  guilty  of  a  like  offence.  When  Truth 
(Thou)  forsakes  me,  my  body  controls  all  my 
nobler  qualities,  and  my  soul  resigns  my  body  to 
uncontrolled  sensual  indulgence.  I  need  no  other 
license  for  the  enjoyment  of  that  love  I  bear  for 
you.  It  is  that  which  makes  me  your  drudge  and 
slave.  For  that  I  have  forsaken  wife,  home,  coun- 
try, and  the  honor  and  renown  of  a  great  life, 
conscience  and  all,  to  aid  in  the  affairs  of  your 
kingdom,  and  ''fall  by  your  side.'' 


Sonnet  152. 
In  loving  Thee  Thou  know'st  I  am  forsworn. 
But  Thou  art  twice  forsworn,  to  Me  love  swearing, 
In  act  Thy  bed- vow  broke  and  new  faith  torn, 
In  vowing  new  hate  after  new  love  bearing. 
But  why  of  two  oaths'  breach  do  I  accuse  Thee, 
Wlien  I  break  twenty  ?    I  am  perjur'd  most; 
16 


242  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

For  all  My  vows  are  oaths  but  to  misuse  Tliee, 
And  all  My  honest  faith  in  Thee  is  lost: 
For  I  have  sworn  deep  oaths  of  Thy  deep  kindness, 
Oaths  of  Thy  love,  Thy  truth,  Thy  constancy, 
And,  to  enlighten  Thee,  gave  eyes  to  blindness, 
Or  made  them  swear  against  the  thing  they  see; 
For  I  have  sworn  Thee  fair;  more  perjur'd  I, 
To  swear  against  the  truth  so  foul  a  lie  ! 

In  this  stanza,  pursuing  the  same  form  of  ad- 
dress to  Thou  and  Thee,  he  gives  Cleopatra's  reply 
to  Antony.  "  You  know  I  am  forsworn  in  loving 
you,  as  I  am  the  widow  of  Ptolemy ;  but  you  are 
twice  forsworn  in  swearing  love  to  me. — once  to 
Fulvia,  who  died  after  your  first  visit  here,  and 
now  to  Octavia,  to  whom  you  are  just  married. 
Your  bed-vow  to  Octavia  is  broken,  and  the  new 
faith  you  have  given  her  violated,  by  thus  disre- 
garding your  marital  ties.  But  I  am  wrong  to 
accuse  you  of  breaking  two  oaths,  when  I  break 
twenty.  I  am  the  worst  criminal,  for  all  my  vows 
lead  to  the  misdirection  of  your  great  qualities.  I 
have  lost  all  honest  faith  in  you,  because  you  have 
proved  false  to  the  kindness  that  I  credited  you 
with,  as  well  as  to  the  love,  truth,  and  constancy 
which  I  believed  I  enjoyed  in  your  attentions.  I 
made  mj^self  blind  to  your  falsities,  and  would 
not  see  them  because  I  felt  certain  of  your  great 
love  for  me.  I  was  truly  perjured  in  swearing 
this  against  the  truth,  as  since  revealed  in  your 
perfidy." 


m  THE  SONNETS.  243 

Sonnet  153. 

Cupicl  laid  by  his  brand,  and  fell  asleep: 

A  maid  of  Dian's  this  advantage  found, 

And  his  love-kindling  fire  did  quickly  steep 

In  a  cold  valley-fountain  of  that  ground; 

Which  borrow'd  from  this  holy  fire  of  love 

A  dateless  lively  heat,  still  to  endure, 

And  grew  a  seething  bath,  which  yet  men  prove 

Against  strange  maladies  a  sovereign  cure. 

But  at  My  Mistress'  eye  Love's  brand  new-fir'd. 

The  boy  for  trial  needs  would  toucli  My  breast; 

I,  sick  withal,  the  help  of  bath  desir'd. 

And  thither  hied,  a  sad  diateraper'd  guest, 
But  found  no  cure:  the  bath  for  My  help  lies 
Where  Cupid  got  new  fire,  —  My  Mistress'  eyes. 


Sonnet  154. 
The  little  Love-god  lying  once  asleep 
Laid  by  his  side  his  heart-inflaming  brand, 
Whilst  many  nymphs  that  vow'd  chaste  life  to  keep 
Came  tripping  by;  but  in  her  maiden  hand 
Tlie  fairest  votary  took  up  that  fire 
Which  many  legions  of  true  hearts  had  warm'd, 
And  so  the  general  of  hot  desire 
Was  sleeping  by  a  virgin  hand  disarm'd. 
This  brand  she  quenched  in  a  cool  well  by, 
Which  from  Love's  fire  took  heat  perpetual, 
Growing  a  bath  and  healthful  remedy 
For  men  diseas'd;  but  I,  My  Mistress*  thrall, 
Came  there  for  cure,  and  this  by  that  1  prove, 
Love's  fire  heats  water,  water  cools  not  love. 

These  two  stanzas,  the  last  a  reproduction  in 
sentiment  of  the  first,  simply  state  the  fact  that 
the  god  of  Love  provided,  in  a  spring  or  well, 
water  that  would  prove  a  sovereign  cure  for 
*' strange  maladies."     In  order  to  test  it,  he  caused 


244  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE. 

the  writer,  who  wished  to  find  some  remedy  for 
the  incessant  influence  he  was  under  to  disphiy 
life  in  character,  in  Tragedy,  to  go  there  and 
bathe.     He  found  no  cure. 

The  bath  for  his  help  lies  "  where  Cupid  got 
new  fire, — My  Mistress'  [Tragedy]  eyes." 


FRAKCIS  BACOl!^. 


Lord  Campbell  says  of  Bacon's  writings:  "Of 
all  the  compositions  in  any  language  I  am  ac- 
quainted with,  these  will  bear  to  be  the  oftenest 
perused,  and  after  every  perusal  they  still  present 
some  new  meaning  and  some  new  beauty/'  The 
same  observation  will  apply  with  broader  signifi- 
cance to  his  life.  As  often  as  it  has  been  written, 
each  new  biographer  has  revealed  new  phases  in 
his  character,  which  relieves  it  of  some  of  its  re- 
pulsive features.  That  he  committed  great  errors, 
cannot,  in  the  light  of  his  own  confessions,  be 
denied;  but  many  of  his  acts  represented  as  crimi- 
nal and  corrupt  take  their  complexion  from  the 
age  in  which  we  live,  no  allowance  being  made 
for  the  laws,  customs,  habits  of  life  and  thought 
that  prevailed  during  the  reigns  of  Elizabeth  and 
James.  Bacon,  judged  by  his  contemporaries,  was 
no  worse  than  they;  but  it  was  his  fortune,  whether 
good  or  bad,  to  be  more  conspicuous  by  reason  of 
his  wonderful  genius  and  prolific  pen.  Viewed 
in  the  light  of  intellectual  achievement,  he  was 
the  most  remarkable  man  of  modern  times.     If 


246  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Greece  or  Rome  ever  produced  his  superior,  their 
histories  fail  to  record  it.  What  he  would  have 
accomplished  for  humanity,  if  his  early  hopes  and 
designs  had  not  been  thwarted  by  the  death  of  his 
father,  and  the  consequent  loss  of  his  patrimony, 
it  is  impossible  to  conceive;  but  that  he  would 
have  escaped  the  errors  and  mistakes  of  the  life 
he  was  obliged  to  adopt,  there  can  be  but  little 
doubt,  —  for,  though  educated  for  public  life,  his 
tastes,  inclinations,  and  intentions  were  all  at  that 
time  wedded  to  speculative  and  philosophical  pur- 
suits. 

It  is  painfully  apparent  from  his  letters  to  his 
uncle.  Lord  Burleigh,  begging  for  some  more  con- 
genial employment,  that  it  was  with  a  heavy  heart 
that  he  entered  Gray*s  Inn  to  fit  himself  for  the 
profession  of  the  law.  Slender  means  and  ex- 
pensive tastes  soon  involved  him  in  debt.  He 
became  the  prey  of  the  money  sharks  of  the  time, 
was  arrested,  and  spent  a  night  in  a  sponging- 
house.  This  experience,  coupled  with  the  natural 
longing  of  his  nature  for  that  indulgence  of  taste 
and  curiosity  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed, 
doubtless  suggested  the  idea  of  merchandising 
his  thoughts  as  a  means  of  supplying  his  purse. 
When  this  thought  occurred  to  him,  or  at  what 
time  he  began  to  write  his  dramas,  must  be  left  to 
conjecture.  He  entered  Gray^s  Inn  in  1580,  at 
the  age  of  twenty.  Shakespeare,  who  was  to  fig- 
ure as  his  coadjutor,  came  to  London  from  Strat- 


m  THE  SON'NETS.  247 

ford  in  1585  or  158G.  It  was  probably  after  this 
latter  event  that  he  sought  for  means  to  put  his 
scheme  in  execution.  One  great  obstacle  must 
have  presented  itself.  He  was  the  son  of  a  noble- 
man who  had  filled  the  highest  offices  in  the 
realm,  and  the  nephew  of  Lord  Burleigh,  the 
queen's  great  prime  minister.  The  profession  he 
had  chosen  must  in  a  few  years  introduce  him 
into  the  duties  and  responsibilities  of  official  pub- 
lic life.  All  his  hopes  and  opportunities  for  pre- 
ferment and  renown  depended  upon  success  in 
his  profession.  Next  to  proficiency  in  that,  noth- 
ing was  of  more  importance  than  a  character 
formed  after  the  models  furnished  in  the  lives 
and  conduct  of  the  successful  men  of  the  time. 
He  plainly  foresaw  that  to  be  known  as  a  play- 
wright would  blast  all  his  hopes,  and  assign  him 
to  a  position  among  a  class  to  whom  all  worthy 
social  privileges  and  chances  for  favorable  recog- 
nition were  hopelessly  denied.  How  to  avoid  such 
a  fate,  and  make  his  scheme  successful,  must  have 
given  him  much  anxiety. 

I  am  more  than  inclined  to  believe  that  as  a  rec- 
reation to  the  study  of  the  law,  he  had,  previous  to 
this  time,  written  the  comedy  of  "  Love's  Labor 's 
Lost,"  and  gave  it  that  suggestive  title  to  signify 
that  the  hours  of  pleasure  spent  in  composing  it 
were  wasted,  and  of  no  account.  The  many  beau- 
tiful passages  it  contained,  its  fertile  imagery,  and 
philosophical  speculations,  were  to  him  like  the 


248  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEAnE     , 

revelation  of  a  new  world.  They  made  him  famil- 
iar with  his  own  powers.  As  compared  with  the 
dramas  of  the  time,  this  one  was  vastly  superior. 
How  he  would  delight  to  see  it  performed  !  Pre- 
vious to  this  time  he  had  participated  in  masques 
and  plays  as  an  amateur,  whenever  any  festival  or 
public  occasion  offered  at  Gray^s  Inn.  We  may 
suppose  that  by  this  and  similar  appeals  to  his 
glowing  fancy,  the  subject  grew  in  importance,, 
and  gave  him  little  rest  until  he  had  devised  a 
plan  for  its  presentation  at  Blackfriars.  He  had 
learned  by  frequent  attendance  at  the  theatre 
how  to  please  an  audience.  Much  circumspection 
and  entire  secrecy  must  be  observed  to  make  his 
plan  successful,  but  some  one  must  be  trusted. 
Should  he  succeed,  he  would  be  able,  not  only  to 
supply  "  this  consumption  of  the  purse,"  but  to 
delight  in  witnessing  his  own  drama.  Unques- 
tionably many  schemes  were  devised  and  aban- 
doned before  he  concluded  to  trust  William 
Shakespeare.  And  why  was  he  selected?  We 
look  into  the  history  of  the  times  for  an  answer. 
The  name  of  playwright  in  those  days  was  but  an- 
other name  for  a  man  of  vicious  and  abandoned 
life.  Green,  one  of  the  best,  died  a  wretched 
drunkard  and  debauchee.  Marlow,  next  to  Shake- 
speare in  rank  as  a  writer,  was  slain  in  a  drunken 
brawl.  So  of  many  others;  and  where  all  were 
bad,  it  was  no  easy  task  to  find  one  who  could  be 
trusted.     Shakespeare  had  not  been  contaminated 


m  THE  SONNETS.  249 

by  the  vices  of  his  associates.  He  came  to  Lon- 
don in  the  pursuit  of  fortune,  possibly  to  escape 
the  consequences  of  some  wild  freak  of  his  youth. 
His  life  at  Stratford  had  not  been  free  from  stain. 
He  had  been  charged  with  poaching.  He  was 
forced  into  an  early  and  ill-assorted  marriage,  and 
had  left  his  native  town  under  a  cloud.  Despite 
these  blots,  he  was  the  only  man  in  theatrical  life 
in  whose  simplicity,  deportment,  and  general  bear- 
ing Bacon  saw  that  ho  could  venture  to  confide. 
At  great  risk,  he  made  choice  of  him,  unbosomed 
his  purpose  to  him,  and  found  an  ardent  and  trust- 
worthy co-worker,  who  from  that  moment  became, 
in  effect,  the  author  of  the  great  works  which  ever 
since  have  borne  his  name. 

Strong  bonds  of  mutual  confidence  were  entered 
into  between  them.  It  was  understood  by  both 
that  whenever  Bacon,  from  prudential  or  other 
motives,  should  cease  to  write,  Shakespeare  should 
retain  his  assumed  authorship  of  the  plays,  and 
enjoy  the  avails.  Until  that  time,  they  were 
to  share  alike  in  the  profits.  Addressing  Thy 
(Thought)  in  the  thirty-seventh  Sonnet,  he  says: — 

"  So  then  I  am  not  lame,  poor,  nor  despis'd, 
Whilst  that  this  shadow  doth  such  substance  give 
That  I  in  Thy  abundance  am  suffic'd 
And  by  a  jpart  of  all  Thy  glory  live." 

The  merit  of  his  own  productions,  apparent  to 
him  at  first,  made  his  work  a  labor  of  lOve;  more 
to   be  preferred   than   ''public   honor  or  proud 


250  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

titles.'*     He  neyer  tires  in  this  poem  of  assuring 
it  the  immortality  it  has  since  enjoyed. 

From  a  passage  in  Green's  '*  Groatesworth  of 
Wit,"  it  is  quite  certain  that  Shakespeare  posed  as 
a  playwright  prior  to  1592,  and  with  Bacon's  aid 
contributed  somewhat  to  the  composition  of  two 
historical  dramas,  —  one  called  the  "True  History 
of  the  Contention  between  the  Houses  of  York 
and  Lancaster,"  the  other,  "  The  True  Tragedy  of 
Richard  Duke  of  York."  These  plays  were  after- 
wards incorporated  into  the  second  and  third 
parts  of  Henry  VI.,  which  was  first  published  in 
the  folio  of  1623,  seven  years  after  Shakespeare's 
death.  He  was  not  publicly  known  as  a  dramatist 
until  several  of  the  plays,  which  afterwards  bore 
his  name,  had  been  often  performed  at  Black- 
friars.  "Venus  and  Adonis,"  a  poem  which  in  the 
dedication  to  the  Earl  of  Southampton  is  called 
"the  first  heir  of  his  invention,"  was  the  first 
work  bearing  his  name.  It  was  an  elegant  per- 
formance, and  served  the  office,  which  Bacon 
doubtless  intended  it  should,  of  gracefully  intro- 
ducing Shakespeare  as  a  poet  to  the  young  wits 
and  poets  of  London  society.  Poetry,  apart  from 
the  drama,  was  rapidly  growing  in  favor  with  the 
young  nobility.  The  exquisite  beauty  of  the 
poem,  the  aptness  and  modesty  of  the  dedication, 
and  the  sudden  appearance  of  the  rude,  untutored 
player  as  a  poet,  must  have  given  an  immediate 
prestige  to  his  name,  which  was  emphasized  in  a 


m  THE  SONJSIETS.  251 

more  substantial  manner  when  the  first  drama 
bearing  it  appeared  upon  the  boards  of  Black- 
friars.  While  by  this  means  the  arrangement 
was  assured  in  its  financial  aspects,  the  favorable 
publicity  given  to  Shakespeare  acted  as  a  com- 
plete foil  to  th,e  revealment  of  Bacon,  and  Shake- 
speare was  recognized  by  all  as  the  only  author. 

It  was  understood  between  Bacon  and  Shake- 
speare that  they  "two  must  be  twain,''  for  in  their 
lives  there  was  a  "  separable  spite,"  which  would 
ever  prohibit  all  social  intercourse  between  them. 
*'  I  may  not,"  he  says  in  the  thirty-sixth  Sonnet, 
*•' evermore  acknowledge  thee."  A  time  might 
come,  and  that  very  suddenly,  when  circum- 
stances would  require  him  to  ignore  all  knowl- 
edge of  Shakespeare;  but  whatever  might  happen 
to  change  their  relations,  they  must  remain  true 
to  each  other,  and  conceal  the  true  origin  of  the 
dramas  from  the  world.  Shakespeare,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  was  bound  by  self-interest,  for  his 
fortune  was  at  stake;  and  Bacon  saw  nothing  but 
ruin  for  himself  in  disclosure.  Men  thus  bound 
must  be  true  to  each  other  for  the  protection  of 
their  separate  interests. 

In  1591  Bacon  was  appointed  counsel  extraor- 
dinary to  the  queen,  an  office  which  obliged  his 
daily  attendance  upon  her  majesty.  He  describes 
the  tediousness  of  the  hours  spent  in  this  service 
in  the  fifty-seventh  and  fifty-eighth  Sonnets.  He 
must  have  composed  several  comedies  previous  to 


252  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

this  time.  White  thinks  that  ''Love's  Labor's 
Lost,"  "The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona/'  and  the 
"Comedy  of  Errors,"  were  written  before  1592.  It 
may  be  fairly  inferred,  from  the  continuous  history 
in  the  poem,  that  his  work  upon  the  dramas  suf- 
fered no  other  interruption  from  this  appointment 
than  the  hours  of  service  at  court.  Before  1595, 
White  thinks  fourteen  of  the  dramas  had  been 
written.  How  to  preserve  them,  and  escape  public 
recognition,  was  an  ever-present  cause  of  fear  and 
annoyance.  * 

In  1594,  when  Bacon  became  a  candidate  for 
solicitor-general,  he  bade  farewell  to  play-writing. 
So  confident  was  he  of  this  appointment,  that  he 
determined  to  abandon  it  altogether.  The  separa- 
tion provided  for  in  his  arrangement  with  Shake- 
speare was  announced  in  the  eighty-seventh  Son- 
net. In  the  four  or  five  stanzas  succeeding,  he 
declares  that  the  only  obstacle  to  his  appointment 
v/ould  be  the  exposure  of  his  authorship  of  the 
dramas.  It  was  a  great  terror  to  him,  and  he  was 
willing  to  make  any  personal  sacrifice  to  prevent  it. 
His  fears  are  most  vividly  portrayed  in  the  nineti- 
eth Sonnet.  The  hate  of  Thou  and  Thy  which  he 
there  invokes,  seemingly  to  him,  furnished  his 
only  means  of  concealment.  In  the  ninety-second 
Sonnet  he  writes: — 

"  I  see  a  better  state  to  me  belongs 
Than  that  which  on  Thy  [Thought's]  humour  doth  depend; 
Thou  [Truth]  canst  not  vex  me  with  inconstant  mind. 
Since  that  my  life  on  Thy  [Thought's]  revolt  doth  lie." 


m  THE  SONNETS.  253 

The  seventeen  months  of  suspense,  while  Bacon 
and  his  devoted  friend  Essex  were  engaged  in  the 
effort  to  obtain  the  solicitorship,  were  full  of  un- 
happiness,  suspicion,  and  alarm.  At  first,  as  he 
says  in  the  Sonnets,  he  found  no  pleasure  even  in 
contemplating  the  occupation  he  had  abandoned. 
Soon,  however,  jealous  of  what  he  deemed  the 
failure  of  other  poets,  he  re-wrote  the  poem  of 
"Lucrece,"  which  he  had  composed  three  years 
before.  This  was  his  only  literary  work  during 
that  period.  It  was  published  in  1594,  and  dedi- 
cated to  the  Earl  of  Southampton,  and  as  intended, 
probably,  filled  the  promise  of  that  ''graver  labor" 
made  in  the  dedication  of  "Venus  and  Adonis." 

During  this  anxious  period  he  spared  no  efforts 
to  win  the  solicitorship.  He  besought  his  uncle 
to  use  his  influence  with  the  queen.  Not  meeting 
with  the  encouragement  he  had  a  right  to  expect 
from  him,  he  attached  himself  to  the  young  Earl 
of  Essex,  who  espoused  his  cause  with  unremitting 
energy.  In  the  various  electioneering  devices  re- 
sorted to,  while  the  choice  was  undecided,  he,  as 
he  says,  ''made  a  motley"  of  himself  before  the 
world,  "gor'd  his  own  thoughts,'^  and  became  a 
beggar  for  office.  The  elegant  letter,  accompanied 
by  a  valuable  jewel,  which  he  wrote  to  the  queen, 
attests  as  well  to  his  eager  desire  for  the  appoint- 
ment as  to  the  measure  he  had  fixed  for  his  own 
abilities,  and  the  moral  dignity  and  grandeur  of 
his  nature.     Perhaps  his  most  unfortunate  stroke 


254  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

of  policy  was  the  one  upon  which  he  chiefly  relied, 
that  of  attaching  himself  to  the  Earl  of  Essex. 
That  young  nobleman,  though  in  great  favor  with 
Elizabeth,  was  valued  more  for  his  personal  ac- 
complishments than  his  political  sagacity.  He 
was  also,  by  reason  of  the  queen's  preference,  es- 
pecially obnoxious  to  Lord  Burleigh,  and  his  son, 
Robert  Cecil.  Macaulay  believes  that  they  con- 
nived at  Bacon's  defeat,  and  influenced  Lord 
Keeper  Puckering  to  express  a  preference  for  some 
other  applicant.  It  is  this  opposition  of  his  own 
kinsmen  that  Bacon  alludes  to  in  the  line,  "  made 
old  off'ences  of  afi'ections  new."  He  off'ended  Bur- 
leigh and  Cecil  by  his  reliance  upon  Essex. 

His  confession  leaves  no  room  for  doubt  as  to 
the  means  he  used  while  in  pursuit  of  the  office. 
His  moral  delinquences  stood  as  accusing  spirits 
before  liim.  ''Most  true  it  is,"  he  writes,  "I  have 
look'd  on  truth  askance  and  strangely."  How  does 
this  materially  differ  from  the  office-seekers  of  our 
day?  Is  there  not  always  in  the  shifts,  turns,  and 
devices,  which  hope  and  fear  deem  necessary  to 
success,  a  constant  warfare  upon  truth?  The  or- 
deal through  which  he  passed  during  this  period 
is  more  graphically  described  in  the  one  hundred 
and  nineteenth  Sonnet:  — 

**  What  potions  have  I  drunk  of  Siren  tears, 
Distill'd  from  limbecks  foul  as  hell  within, 
Applying  fears  to  hopes  aud  hopes  to  fears, 
Still  losing  when  I  saw  myself  to  win! 


/JV  THE  SONNETS.  255 

What  wretched  errors  hath  my  heart  committed, 
Whilst  it  hath  thought  itself  so  blessed  never! 
How  have  mine  eyes  out  of  their  spheres  been  fitted 
In  the  distraction  of  this  madding  fever." 

How  many  of  the  great  men  since  Bacon's  time, 
whose  experience,  like  his,  was  filled  with  all  the 
sacrifices  of  principle,  honor,  and  truth,  would,  as 
he  did,  make  a  full  and  frank  confession  of  their 
errors!  Yet  the  name  of  this  great  benefactor  of 
our  race  is  almost  a  synonyme  for  all  that  is  mean, 
unscrupulous,  and  vile  in  human  character.  Per- 
haps the  world  is  not  entirely  wrong  in  its  denun- 
ciations; but  if  Bacon  had  concealed  his  offences 
as  skilfully  as  he  concealed  his  merits,  his  memory 
would  stand  much  fairer  in  the  eyes  of  posterity. 
His  confessions  ruined  him.  If,  as  lord  chancel- 
lor, instead  of  confessing  to  a  formidable  array  of 
acts,  all  of  which  had  been  of  customary  observ- 
ance before  his  time,  he  had  opposed  a  bold  front 
and  insisted  upon  a  trial,  there  is  little  doubt  that 
with  the  king  and  Buckingham  (both  of  whom  it 
is  hinted  by  Tenison  were  as  blamable  as  he  was) 
to  aid  him,  he  would  have  escaped  that  terrible 
downfall,  and  that  more  terrible  distich,  which  in 
a  succeeding  age  branded  him  as  "  the  meanest  of 
mankind." 

In  the  fall  of  1595  the  hopes  of  Bacon  were  un- 
expectedly blasted  by  the  appointment  of  Sergeant 
Fleming  solicitor-general.  The  announcement 
fell  upon  his  ear  like  a  thunderbolt.     The  disap- 


256  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

pointment  was  not  so  severe  as  the  humiliation. 
His  faith  in  the  influence  of  Essex  with  the  queen 
had  been  from  the  first  an  assurance  of  success. 
He  immediately  withdrew  from  public  view,  and 
determined  to  seek  relief  for  his  wounded  feelings 
in  travel.  The  natural  buoyancy  of  his  spirits, 
and  the  encouragement  of  Essex,  accompanied  by 
a  munificent  gift,  soon  dispelled  his  gloom  and 
sorrow,  and  he  returned  to  his  habits  of  contem- 
plation and  composition.  He  wrote  and  published 
ten  essays  under  his  own  name,  which  were  greatly 
admired,  and  reinstated  him  in  the  public  favor. 
He  regards  them  as  no  substitute  in  his  love  for 
dramatic  composition.  Alluding  to  them  in  the 
one  hundred  and  tenth  Sonnet,  he  writes  to  Thee 
(Thought):  — 

"And  worse  Essays  prov'd  Thee  my  best  of  love." 

The  great  sorrow  he  had  experienced  proved  to 
him  his  predominant  love  for  closet  studies,  and 
especially  for  dramatic  labor.  "As  easy,"  he  says 
in  the  one  hundred  and  ninth  Sonnet,  "  might  I 
from  myself  depart,  as  from  my  soul  which  in  thy 
breast  doth  lie." 

"For  nothing  this  wide  universe  I  call. 
Save  Thou,  My  rose;  in  it  Thou  art  My  all.*' 

In  the  one  hundred  and  seventh  stanza,  the 
death  of  Queen  Elizabeth  and  the  accession  of 
James  I.  are  announced  in  a  single  line: — 

"  The  mortal  moon  hath  her  eclipse  endur'd." 


m  THE  SONNETS.  257 

No  occurrence  at  that  time  could  have  been 
more  welcome  to  Bacon.  Elizabeth's  care  for  him 
had  always  taken  the  form  of  a  guardian  for  a 
ward.  She  had  been  no  friend  to  his  ambition  or 
his  abilities.  He  follows  the  announcement  of 
her  death  with  these  words:  — 

**Incertanties  now  crown  themselves  assur'd. 

Now  with  the  drops  of  this  most  balmy  time 
My  love  looks  fresh,  and  death  to  me  subscribes. 
Since,  spite  of  him,  1 11  live  in  this  poor  rhyme, 
While  he  insults  o'er  dull  and  speechless  tribes." 

What  were  the  "  incertainties  "  in  Bacon's  life 
which  now  "  crown'd  themselves  assured  "  ?  There 
is  an  inner  history  here  alluded  to  which  has  never 
been  published, —  a  history  that  at  the  time  was 
not  fully  revealed,  in  which  Bacon  was  an  actor. 
Elizabeth  always  feared  that  her  title  to  the  throne 
would  be  disputed,  and  possibly  violently  contested 
by  the  adherents  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  It 
was  this  fear,  more  than  any  overt  act  proved  on 
the  trial  of  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  that  caused  the 
death  of  that  unfortunate  nobleman.  Influenced 
by  this  fear,  Elizabeth  treated  Mary  as  a  rival, 
and  when  she  sought  her  protection,  imprisoned 
her  for  eighteen  years,  tried  her  for  conspiracy, 
and  decapitated  her.  This  same  fear,  with  better 
cause,  led  to  the  death  of  Essex. 

Bacon,  by  attaching  his  fortunes  to  Essex,  w^as 

defeated  by  the  jealous  hostility  of  Burleigh  and 

Cecil.     When,  by  his  unauthorized  return  from 

17 


258  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Ireland,  Essex  fell  under  the  displeasure  of  the 
queen,  Bacon,  finding  it  impossible  to  procure  his 
reinstatement  without  a  trial,  prevailed  with  her 
majesty  to  make  the  inquiry  into  his  conduct 
extrajudicial  in  form,  and  reformatory  rather  than 
.punitive.  The  result  was  a  judgment  of  tempo- 
rary exile  and  partial  confinement.  It  was  re- 
mitted by  slow  degrees,  but  the  friends  of  Essex 
meantime,  among  their  public  demonstrations  in 
his  favor,  caused  the  play  of  Henry  IV.  to  be  per- 
formed for  forty  nights.  One  Hayward,  a  play- 
wright, also  read  a  pamphlet,  giving  an  account  of 
the  dethronement  of  Richard  II.,  which  aroused 
the  fears  of  the  queen,  who  saw  in  it  an  attempt 
to  excite  the  populace  to  treason.  Hayward  was 
arrested  and  sent  to  the  Tower,  and  probably 
saved  from  a  trial  that  would  have  cost  him  his 
head,  by  a  quick-witted  reply  of  Bacon  to  the 
queen's  inquiry,  "  if  he  could  find  any  places  in  it 
that  might  be  drawn  in  the  case  of  treason.''  "  For 
treason,  madam,"  he  replied,  "  I  surely  find  none, 
but  for  felony,  very  many."  "  Wherein?  "  asked 
Elizabeth,  eagerly.  "  Madam,"  said  Bacon,  "  the 
author  hath  committed  very  apparent  theft,  for  he 
hath  taken  most  of  the  sentences  of  Cornelius 
Tacitus,  and  translated  them  into  English,  and 
put  them  into  his  text." 

Bacon  always  took  counsel  of  his  fears.  He  did- 
not  feel  safe  ever  after,  while  Elizabeth  reigned. 
He  wrote  nothing  except  his  ten  essays  and  a  few 


m  THE  SONNETS,  259 

tracts  until  her  death.  This  "  incertainty/'  caused 
by  the  performance  of  his  play,  —  a  play  commem- 
orative of  a  usurper,  —  was,  like  David's  sin,  "  ever 
before  him.''  He  knew  not  at  what  moment  it 
might  be  revived,  or  at  what  moment  he  might  be 
exposed  as  its  author;  but  if  such  moment  should 
come,  he  knew  that  his  arrest  would  be  certain, 
and  how  innocent  soever  he  might  have  been  in 
purpose,  his  guilt  would  be  affirmed.  Now  that 
Elizabeth  was  dead,  and  the  Scottish  monarch  on 
the  throne,  this  "  incertainty  "  was  *'  assured,"  his 
fears  vanished,  peace  reigned,  his  love  looked  fresh, 
and  "  death  "  to  him  *'  subscribed,"  or  in  plainer 
phrase,  surrendered.  He  was  ready  to  resume 
work  as  a  dramatist,  and  as  we  infer  from  the 
one  hundred  and  eleventh  and  one  hundred  and. 
twelfth  Sonnets,  his  first  drama  was  "  Timon  of 
Athens." 

The  philosophy  which  he  invoked  for  Timon 
was  equally  applicable  to  himself.  Addressing 
You  (Beauty),  he  says: — 

"O,  for  my  sake  do  You  with  Fortune  chide, 
The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds, 
That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide 
Than  public  means  which  public  manners  breeds." 

This  in  effect  expressed  his  intention  of  writing 
a  drama  which  should  reflect  the  trial  he  had 
passed  through.  In  his  own  view,  it  must  have 
been  bitter  indeed.  All  his  early  memories  were 
awakened,  when,  as  the  son  of  one  of  the  first  of- 


260  BAC02T  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

ficers  of  the  realm,  he  was  taught  to  look  forward 
upon  a  life  to  be  spent  in  pursuits  of  his  own 
choice.  For  this  had  he  been  educated,  and  for 
this  only  was  he  fitted.  Fortune  decreed  other- 
wise. He  had  no  resource  but  "  public  means," 
and  his  first  effort  to  improve  them  by  attaining  a 
position  had  failed.  He  had  made  a  public  exhi- 
bition of  himself;  had  been  party  to  many  in- 
trigues; had  compromised  his  integrity.  Why 
did  not  fortune  better  provide  for  him?  Why  was 
ho  forced  to  belie  his  own  great  nature  and  de- 
scend to  all  the  tricks,  manners,  and  expenses  of 
an  office-seeker?  Yet  in  his  case  they  were  un- 
avoidable. He  had  no  other  means  of  livelihood 
or  renown.     He  continues: — 

"  Tlience  comes  it  that  my  name  receivtjs  a  brand, 
Aiitl  almost  thence  my  nature  is  subdued 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand." 

The  "  brand  '*  hero  alluded  to  was  undoubtedly 
the  aid  he  gave  in  the  prosecution  of  Essex.  He 
was  charged  with  ingratitude  of  the  basest  kind. 
Essex  had  been  his  devoted  friend;  aided  him  in 
his  struggle  for  position;  presented  him  with  a 
valuable  estate;  rendered  him  friendly  service  in 
his  courtship  of  LadyHatton.  For  these  services 
he  had  a  claim  upon  Bacon  for  any  assistance  he 
might  be  able  to  give.  One  to  read  Macaulay's  or 
GampbelPs  Life  of  Bacon  would  conclude  that  he 
requited  these  kindnesses  with  the  blackest  in- 
gratitude and  inhumanity.    Nothing  can  be  far- 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  261 

ther  from  the  truth.  Bacon  was  the  constant 
friend  and  adviser  of  Essex,  from  the  moment  that 
Ife  entered  the  queen's  service  until  his  treason- 
able attempt  to  dethrone  her.  We  have  already 
seen  that  Bacon  saved  him  from  a  public  trial  on 
his  ill-advised  return  from  Ireland.  It  was  only 
after  his  arrest  for  high  treason  that  Bacon,  un- 
able to  assist  him  further,  was  obliged,  as  a  loyal 
subject  and  counsellor,  to  aid  in  his  prosecution. 
Macaulay  intimates  that  ho  should  have  refused 
to  act.  Campbell  thinks  that  but  for  his  assist- 
ance Essex  might  have  escaped.  With  singular 
inconsistency  both  agree  that  Essex  was  guilty 
and  deserved  his  fate.  Had  Bacon  refused  his  as- 
sistance at  the  trial,  he  would  have  been  arrested, 
tried,  and  punished.  Had  he  failed  in  the  proper 
discharge  of  his  duties  upon  the  trial,  and  been  de- 
tected in  attempting  to  save  the  earl  by  diverting 
the  minds  of  the  peers  from  the  testimony,  death 
would  have  been  his  certain  portion.  Essex  was 
arrested  in  the  very  act  of  treason.  It  was  not  pos- 
sible for  him  to  escape  conviction.  Bacon  knew 
that,  having  been  always  an  ardent  friend  and 
supporter  of  the  earl,  all  eyes  would  be  turned 
upon  him.  The  slightesly  dereliction  on  liis  part 
would  be  deemed  proof  of  his  complicity  in  the 
treason.  It  was  im.possible  for  him  to  aid  Essex 
and  save  himself.  He  plainly  saw  that  no  aid  he 
could  render  would  alter  the  result,  and  that  any 
reluctance  on  his  part  to  act  would  be  fatal  to  him. 


262  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Who  but  one  that  has  been  placed  in  a  similar 
situation,  and  acted  differently,  has  any  right  to 
brand  Bacon  with  ingratitude  for  the  course  he 
pursued  ? 

This  "  brand  "  upon  his  name,  he  intimates,  so 
subdued  his  nature  that  he  was  ready  to  sacrifice 
all  ambition  for  advancement,  and  confine  him- 
self to  his  profession,  which,  like  "the  dyer's 
hand,''  would  take  its  character  from  its  miscel- 
laneous occupations.  It  destroyed  his  confidence 
in  humanity.  He  describes  in  the  one  hundred 
and  twelfth  Sonnet  the  resolution  he  made  for 
the  government  of  his  future  life.  You  (Beauty) 
have  drawn  the  character  of  Flavins,  the  steward 
of  Timon,  as  a  representative  of  Bacon's  disgust 
at  the  treatment  he  received  from  his  professed 
friends.  Among  them  all,  Flavius  alone  was 
sincere.  The  entire  stanza,  as  may  be  seen  by 
comparing  it  with  the  play,  is  addressed  to  him. 
The  love  and  pity  which  Flavius  manifested  for 
Timon  in  prosperity  and  adversity;  his  efforts  to 
save  him  by  warning  him  of  his  extravagance; 
his  fruitless  expedients  to  supply  means  for  the 
payment  of  his  debts;  his  search  for  him  after  he 
had  fled  to  the  woods;  the  pity  he  then  expressed 
for  him,  and  the  unselfishness  of  all  his  acts, — 
were  the  "love  and  pity"  that  filled  the  impression 
which  "vulgar  scandal"  had  fastened  upon  Bacon. 
That  "  vulgar  scandal "  doubtless  was  his  extrava- 
gance and  impecuniosity,  which,  as  in  the  case  of 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  203 

Timon,  had  followed  him  after  his  defeat.  Un- 
able to  pay  the  debts  he  had  made,  deserted  by 
his  supposed  friends,  he  wrote  this  play  to  com- 
memorate that  period  of  his  life,  and  to  signify 
his  distrust  of  mankind.  He  delineated  his  own 
character,  —  generous,  confiding,  humane,  liberal 
in  manly  features;  profuse,  improvident,  extrava- 
gant, and  careless  in  habits.  Of  these  Flavins 
reminded  him,  and  became  thereby  "  all  the 
world  to  him,"  He  strove  to  know  "  his  shames 
and  praises  from  his  tongue,"  and  banished  all 
care,  as  did  Timon,  concerning  others.  All  the 
world  beside  was  dead  to  him.  The  philosophy 
thus  invoked  for  Timon  made  Bacon  a  stoic.  As 
his  subsequent  history  proves,  he  gave  himself  up 
to  the  idea  that  he  would  henceforth  be  indiffer- 
ent to  any  judgment  the  world  might  form  of  his 
acts.  He  would  remain  in  public  life.  He  was 
yet  young,  and  in  order  to  rise,  he  must  plead  his 
own  merits.  This  course  he  ever  after  pursued. 
All  his  letters  addressed  to  James,  Buckingham, 
and  Salisbury,  seeking  promotion,  based  his 
claims  upon  his  own  special  qualifications,  often 
even  to  the  disparagement  of  others.  He  was  no 
longer  the  cringing  suppliant  of  Gray's  Inn,  but 
the  statesman  and  confidant  of  the  king.  Thus 
posing  as  Timon,  the  charge  of  ingratitude  had 
no  care  for  him,  except  perhaps  as  it  might  have 
suggested  that  great  creation  of  filial  ingratitude, 
King  Lear,  which  was  his  next  drama. 


264  BACON  AND  snAKESPEAEE 

The  plays  written  by  Bacon  after  his  defeat  took 
their  character  from  the  change  which  that  event 
had  wrought  in  his  life.  They  were  all  illustrative 
of  the  dark  side  of  human  nature.  His  great 
tragedies  of  Lear,  Hamlet,  Othello,  and  Macbeth 
were  of  this  period.  His  own  consciousness  of 
this  change,  and  of  its  effects  upon  the  dramas, 
is  apparent  in  the  following  lines  at  the  close  of 
the  one  hundred  and  nineteenth  Sonnet:  — 

*'  0  benefit  of  ill!  now  I  find  true 
That  better  is  by  evil  still  nmde  better; 
And  ruin'd  love,  when  it  is  built  anew. 
Grows  fairer  than  at  first,  more  strong,  far  greater. 
So  I  return  rebuk'd  to  My  content. 
And  gain  by  ill  thrice  more  than  I  have  spent.** 

Lear,  next  in  composition  to  Timon,  is  very  dis- 
tinctly alluded  to  in  the  one  hundred  and  four- 
teenth and  one  hundred  and  fifteenth  Sonnets. 
The  marks  of  identification  are  unmistakable  in 
the  flattery  of  the  old  king  by  his  daughters;  the 
reference  to  the  daughters  as  *'  monsters  "  in  th& 
resemblance  of  beauty;  the  impulsive  decrees  of 
Lear,  and  hastily  formed  resolution  of  Gloster,  as 
"things  indigest";  the  depicture  of  Goneril,  Regan, 
and  Edmund,  the  perfectly  bad  as  the  perfectly 
best  characters  of  the  play,  all  of  which  in  the  next 
Sonnet  are  denounced  as  a  lie,  in  the  light  of  fur- 
ther developments. 

The  variety  and  character  of  Bacon's  labors  at 
this  time  are  very  astonishing.  In  public  life  he 
was  an  active  mcDiber  of  Parliament,  a  candidate 


m  THE  SONNETS.  265 

for  kniglitliood,  one  of  the  counsel  for  the  crown 
on  the  trial  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  and  an  indus- 
trious worker  for  official  advancement;  while  in 
the  closet  he  was  composing  tragedies,  elaborating 
his  noble  treatise  on  the  *' Advancement  of  Learn- 
ing," planning  a  "  History  of  England,"  and  pre- 
paring a  tract  for  publication  on  "  Helps  to  the 
Intellectual  Powers." 

The  Tempest  was  written  at  this  time.  It  is 
fully  identified  in  the  one  hundred  and  sixteenth 
Sonnet.  Prospero's  love  for  his  brother  is  fore- 
shadowed in  the  lines: — 

**  Love  is  not  love 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds." 

The  remainder  of  the  stanza  is  suggestive  of  the 
other  features  of  the  play.  He  assumes  in  the 
next  stanza  to  have  written  Lear  and  the  Tempest 
for  the  purpose  of  conciliating  Beauty,  with  whom 
he  has  been  at  outs  ever  since,  tempted  by  the 
hope  of  being  solicitor,  he  bade  him  farewell  in 
the  eighty-sixth  and  eighty-seventh  Sonnets.  As 
an  apology  to  him  he  says,  in  the  one  hundred  and 
seventeenth  Sonnet:  — 

**  I  did  strive  to  prove 
The  constancy  and  virtue  of  your  love." 

Constancy  was  the  prominent  characteristic  of 
Cordelia,  and  virtue  that  of  Miranda. 

Soon  after  the  appearance  of  Lear  and  the  Tem- 
pest, the  author,  supposed  by  the  writers  of  the  time 
to  be  Shakespeare,  as  it  would  seem  from  the  one 


2(53  BACON  AND  SIIAKESPEAEE 

hundred  and  twenty-first  stanza,  was  charged  with 
plagiarism  hy  some  of  the  play-writers  of  the 
time.  The  reply  in  the  stanza  does  not  deny,  but 
avoids,  the  charge,  and  retorts  with  heavier  coun- 
ter-accusations. Bacon^s  methods  of  composition 
are  fully  revealed  in  the  poem.  Such  facts  and 
illustrations  as  were  not  of  his  own  conception,  he 
gathered  from  the  works  of  early  authors,  classi- 
fied them  under  their  proper  heads  of  Thought 
and  Beauty,  and  reproduced  them  in  his  own 
language  and  imagery  as  he  found  occasion.  His 
own  thoughts  and  fancies  were  jotted  down  in  the 
same  manner,  without  regard  to  system  or  use. 
One  of  the  most  philosophical  writers  of  our  day, 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  is  said  to  have  pursued  the 
same  method.  With  the  exception  of  the  Tem- 
pest and  possibly  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  all 
of  Bacon's  dramas  were  founded  upon  stories  of 
former  ages.  In  the  twenty-sixth  and  fifty-ninth 
Sonnets  these  methods  are  clearly  defined.  We 
learn  from  them  that  not  only  for  his  plots,  but 
for  very  many  of  the  beautiful  thoughts  which 
adorn  his  dramas,  Bacon  w^as  indebted  to  others. 
He  confesses  as  much  in  the  eighty-seventh  Son- 
net, when  he  tells  Thy  (Thought)  that  his  great 
gift  is  growing  upon  misprision;  and  in  the  eighty- 
eighth,  in  the  words: — 

*'  With  Mine  own  weakness  being  best  acquainted, 
Upon  Thy  part  I  can  set  down  a  story 
Of  faults  conceal'd,  wherein  I  am  attainted, 
That  Thou  in  losing  me  shall  win  much  glory." 


IN  THE  SONNETS,  267 

The  methods  so  clearly  admitted  and  explained 
in  early  life,  as  the  spirit  of  his  reply  indicated, 
disturbed  him  when  they  appeared  in  the  form 
of  accusation.  Why,  he  asks,  should  they,  more 
guilty  than  he  of  falsehood  and  adulteration,  "  in 
their  wills  count  bad  what  he  thinks  good"?  They 
only  expose  themselves,  and  reckon  up  their  own 
errors.  For  aught  they  know,  he  may  be  straiglit. 
He  knows  they  are  not.  His  deeds  must  not  suffer 
from  their  surmises.  He  was  so  fearful,  however, 
that  they  might  suffer  from  this  cause,  that  in  the 
next  Sonnet,  addressing  Thy  (Thought),  he  says 
that  he  has  committed  to  memory,  for  use  in  Thy's 
name,  where  it  will  remain  "  above  that  idle  rank/' — 

"Beyond  all  date,  even  to  eternity," — 

the  ''gifts  and  tables"  containing  these  thoughts; 
so  that  they — 

"Never  can  ba  miss'd. 
That  poor  retention  could  not  so  much  hold, 
Nor  need  I  tallies  thy  dear  love  to  score; 
Therefore  to  give  them  from  me  was  I  bolJ^ 
To  crust  those  tables  [memory]  that  receive  thee  more: 

To  keep  an  adjunct  to  remember  thee 

Were  to  import  f orgetf uluess  in  me. " 

This  "  forgetfulness  "  might  betray  him,  so  he 
destroyed  all  visible  proofs  of  his  methods  and  his. 
writings.  The  Promus,  a  page  of  his  own  discon- 
nected thoughts,  and  a  paper  indorsed  *'  Orna- 
menta  Rationalia"  (Ornaments  of  Truth),  are  the 
only  vestiges  found  among  his  papers  that  bear 
any  relation  to  his  dramas. 


268  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

In  the  introductory  chapter  of  the  Promus,  Mrs. 
Pott  says: — 

"  The  Promus  was  Bacon's  shop  or  storehouse, 
from  which  he  would  draw  forth  things  new  and 
old,  —  turning,  twisting,  expanding,  modifying, 
changing  them,  with  that  'nimbleness'  of  mind, 
that  *  aptness  to  perceive  analogies,'  which  he  notes 
as  being  necessary  to  the  inventor  of  aphorisms, 
and  which,  elsewhere,  he  speaks  of  decidedly, 
though  modestly,  as  gifts  with  which  he  felt  him- 
self specially  endowed. 

**  It  was  a  storehouse  of  pithy  and  suggestive 
sayings,  of  new,  graceful,  or  quaint  terms  of  ex- 
pression, of  repartee,  little  bright  ideas  jotted 
down  as  they  occurred,  and  which  were  made  to 
reappear  '  made  up,'  variegated,  intensified,  and 
indefinitely  multiplied,  as  they  radiated  from  that 
wonderful  *  brayne  cut  with  many  facets.' " 

Mr.  Spedding,  in  his  Life  of  Bacon,  after  speak- 
ing of  the  miscellaneous  character  of  the  collec- 
tions, says:  — 

"As  we  advance,  the  collection  becomes  less 
miscellaneous,  as  if  his  memory  had  been  ranging 
within  a  smaller  circumference.  In  one  place,  for 
instance,  we  find  a  cluster  of  quotations  from  the 
Bible,  following  one  another  with  a  regularity 
which  may  be  best  explained  by  supposing  that 
he  had  just  been  reading  the  Psalms,  Proverbs, 
and  Ecclesiastes,  and  then  the  Gospels  and  Epis- 
tles (or  perhaps  some  commentary  on  them),  regu- 
larly through.  The  quotations  are  in  Latin,  and ' 
most  of  them  agree  exactly  with  the  Vulgate,  but 
not  all.     Passing  this  Scripture  series,  we  again 


I^'   THE  SONNETS,  269 

come  into  a  collection  of  a  very  miscellaneous 
character,  —  proverbs,  French,  Spanish,  Italian, 
English;  sentences  out  of  Erasmuses  Adagia; 
verses  from  the  Epistles,  Gospels,  Psalms,  Prov- 
erbs of  Solomon;  lines  from  Seneca,  Horace,  Vir- 
gil, Ovid,  succeed  each  other  according  to  some 
law,  which,  in  the  absence  of  all  notes  or  other 
indications  to  mark  the  connection  between  the 
several  entries,  the  particular  application  of  each, 
or  the  change  from  one  subject  to  another,  there 
is  no  hope  of  discovering,  though  in  some  places 
several  occur  together,  which  may  be  perceived 
by  those  who  remember  the  struggling  fortune 
and  uncertain  prospects  of  the  writer  in  those 
years,  together  with  the  great  design  he  was 
meditating,  to  be  connected  by  a  common  senti- 
ment/' 

At  the  risk  of  being  thought  tedious,  and  of 
travelling  outside  my  prescribed  field  of  investi- 
gation, I  cannot  refrain  from  placing  before  my 
readers  the  carefully  expressed  opinion  formed  by 
Mrs.  Pott  of  the  innumerable  resemblances  she 
has  traced  between  the  Promus  and  the  dramas. 

"  This  is  not,"  she  says,  "  the  proper  place  for 
discussing  the  many  arguments  which  have  been 
held  for  and  against  the  so-called  *  Baconian 
theory'  of  Shakespeare's  plays.  Nevertheless, 
since  the  publication  of  these  pages  is  the  result 
of  an  investigation,  the  sole  object  of  which  was 
to  confirm  the  growing  belief  in  Bacon's  author- 
ship of  those  plays,  and  since  the  comments 
attached  to  the  notes  of  the  Promus  would  other- 
wise have  no  significance,  it  seems  right  to  sum 


270  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEAUE 

up  in  a  few  lines  the  convictions  forced  upon  the 
mind  with  ever-increasing  strength,  as,  quitting 
the  broad  field  of  generality,  the  inquirer  pursues 
the  narrow  paths  of  detail  and  minute  coinci- 
dence. 

"  It  must  be  held,  then,  that  no  sufficient  ex- 
planation of  the  resemblances  which  have  been 
noted  between  the  writings  of  Bacon  and  Shake- 
speare is  afforded  by  the  supposition  that  these 
authors  may  have  studied  the  same  sciences, 
learned  the  same  languages,  read  the  same  books, 
frequented  the  same  sort  of  society.  To  satisfy 
the  requirements  of  such  an  hypothesis,  it  will  be 
necessary  further  to  admit  that  from  their  scien- 
tific studies  the  two  men  derived  identically  the 
same  theories;  from  their  knowledge  of  languages, 
the  same  proverbs,  turns  of  expression,  and  pecu- 
liar use  of  words;  that  they  preferred  and  chiefly 
quoted  the  same  books  in  the  Bible  and  the  same 
authors;  and  last,  not  least,  that  they  derived  from 
their  education  and  surroundings  the  same  tastes 
and  the  same  antipathies,  and  from  their  learn- 
ing, in  whatever  way  it  was  acquired,  the  same 
opinions  and  the  same  subtle  thoughts. 

"  With  regard  to  the  natural,  and  at  first  sight 
reasonable,  supposition  that  Bacon  and  Shake- 
speare may  have  '  borrowed '  from  each  other,  it 
would  follow  that,  in  such  a  case,  we  should  have 
to  persuade  ourselves,  contrary  to  all  evidence, 
that  they  held  close  intercourse,  or  that  they  made 
a  specific  and  critical  study  of  each  other's  writ- 
ings, borrowing  equally  the  same  kinds  of  things 
from  each  other;  so  that  not  only  opinions  and' 
ideas,  but  similes,  turns  of  expression,  and  words 
which  the  one  introduced  (and  which  perhaps  he 
only  used  once  or  twice  and  then  dropped),  ap- 


m  THE  SON^^ETS.  271 

peared  shortly  afterwards  in  the  writings  of  the 
other,  causing  their  style  to  alter  definitely,  and 
in  the  same  respects,  at  the  same  period  of  their 
literary  lives.  We  should  almost  have  to  bring 
ourselves  to  believe  that  Bacon  took  notes  for  the 
use  of  Shakespeare,  since  in  the  Promus  may  be 
found  several  hundred  notes  of  which  no  trace 
has  been  discovered  in  the  acknowledged  writ- 
ings of  Bacon,  or  of  any  contemporary  writer  but 
Shakespeare,  but  which  are  more  or  less  clearly 
reproduced  in  the  plays,  and  sometimes  in  the 
Sonnets. 

*'  Such  things,  it  must  be  owned,  pass  all  ordi- 
nary powers  of  belief;  and  the  comparison  of 
points  such  as  those  which  have  been  hinted  at 
impress  the  mind  with  a  firm  conviction  that 
Francis  Bacon,  and  he  alone,  wrote  all  the  plays 
and  the  Sonnets  which  are  attributed  to  Shake- 
speare, and  that  William  Shakespeare  was  merely 
the  able  and  jovial  manager,  who,  being  supported 
by  some  of  Bacon's  rich  and  gay  friends  (such 
as  Lord  Southampton  and  Lord  Pembroke),  fur- 
nished the  theatre  for  the  due  representation  of 
the  plays,  which  were  thus  produced  by  Will 
Shakespeare,  and  thenceforward  called  by  his 
name." 

The  following  thoughts,  copied  almost  at  ran- 
dom from  the  1665  collections  comprising  Bacon's 
Promus,  with  corresponding  passages  from  the 
plays,  will  give  the  reader  some  idea  of  his  pre- 
paratory labors  for  dramatic  composition:  — 

Silui  a  bonis  et  dolor  nieus  renovatus  est.  —  Psalms  xxxix. 
(I  was  silent  from  good  words,  and  my  grief  was  renewed.) 
"Tis  very  true  my  grief  lies  all  within; 
And  these  external  manner  of  laments 


272  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Are  merely  shadows  to  the  unseen  grief 
That  swells  with  silence  in  the  tortured  soul." 

—  Richard  II.  f  iv.  1. 

Sat  patriae  Priamque  datum.  — jEneid,  ii.  291. 
(Enough  has  been  done  for  my  country  and  for  Priam.) 
"Soldiers,  this  day  you  have  redeem'd  your  lives, 
And  show'd  how  well  you  love  your  prince  and  country." 
—  Henry  F/.,  2d  pt.,  iv.  8. 

Conscientia  mille  testes.  — Erasmvs's  A'dagia^  346;   QvintUlian, 

V.  xi.  4L 
(Conscience  is  worth  a  thousand  witnesses.) 

"  My  conscience  hath  a  thousand  several  tongues, 
And  every  tongue  brings  in  a  several  tale, 
And  every  tale  condemns  me  for  a  villain." 

—Richard  IIL,  v.  3. 
Summum  jus  summa  injuria.  —  Cicero  Ojfficia,  i.  10. 
(The  extreme  of  justice  is  the  extreme  of  injustice.) 
Leontes.    **  Thou  shalt  feel  our  justice  in  whose  easiest  passage 
Look  for  no  less  than  death."  —  Winter's  Tale,  iii.  1. 

Dulce  et  decorum  est  pro  patria  mori.  — Horace's  Odes,  iii.  2,  13. 
(It  is  sweet  and  becoming  to  die  for  one's  country.) 
"1 11  yield  myself  to  prison  willingly, 
Or  unto  death  to  do  my  country  good. " 
—  Henry  VI.,  2d  pt.,  ii.  5.     See  also  Coriolanus,  i.  3j  i.  6. 

Plumbeo  jugulare  gladio.  — Erasmus's  Adagia,  490. 
(To  kill  with  a  leaden  sword.) 

**  You  leer  upon  me,  do  you  ?    There 's  an  eye 

Wounds  like  a  leaden  sword." 

—  Love's  Labor 's  Lost,  v.  2.     See  also  Julius  Coesar,  iii.  1. 

Haile  of  Perle.  — Erasmus's  Adagia. 
■^  I  '11  set  thee  in  a  shower  of  gold, 
And  hail  rich  pearls  on  thee." 

—  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  ii.  5. 
Solus  currens  vincit.  — Erasmus's  Adagia,  304. 
(When  running  alone  he  conquers. ) 

"Ye  gods,  it  doth  amaze  me  ! 
A  man  of  such  a  feeble  temper  should 
So  get  the  start  of  the  majestic  world, 
And  bear  the  palm  alone."  —  Julius  Ccesar,  i.  3. 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  273 

Utilis  interdum  est  ipsis  injuria  passis.  — Ovid  Iler.,  xvii.  187. 

(Injury  is  sometimes  useful  to  those  who  have  suffered  by  it.) 
**0  sir  to  wilful  men, 
The  injuries  tliat  they  themselves  procure 
Must  be  their  schoolmaster."  —  Lear,  ii.  4. 

Oleo  incendium  restiriguere.  —  Erasmus's  Adagio. 
(To  quench  fire  with  oil. ) 

"Such  smiling  rogues  as  these  bring  oil  to  fire." 
—  Lear,  ii.  2.     See  also  All's  Well,  v.  3;  Merry  Wives,  v.  5. 

Projicit  ampuUas  et  sesquipedalia  verba,  —  Horace  Ars.  Poet,  97. 
(Cast  aside  inflated  diction  and  foot  and  a  half  long  words. 
"They  have  lived  on  the  alms-basket  of  words." 

—  Love's  Labor 's  Lost,  v.  1. 
**  Tliree  piled  hyperboles,  spruce  affectation, 

Figures  pedantical."  —  Id.,  v.  2. 

Saying  and  doing  two  things. 

"Your  words  and  your  perfoi-mancea  are  no  kin  together." 

—  OtMlo,  iv.  2. 

Ubi  non  sis  qui  fueris  non  est  cur  velis  vivere. 

—  Erasmus's  Adagia,  275. 
(When  you  are  no  longer  what  you  have  been,  there  is  no  cause 

why  you  should  wish  to  live. ) 
Shy  lock.    "Nay,  take  my  life  and  all:   pardon  not  that:  — 
You  take  my  house  when  you  do  take  the  prop 
That  doth  sustain  my  house;  you  take  my  life 
When  you  do  take  the  means  whereby  I  live." 

—  Merchant  of  Venice,  iv.  2. 
"Let  me  not  live,  quoth  he. 

After  my  fiame  lacks  oil,  to  be  the  snuff 
Of  younger  spirits.  — All's  Well,  i.  3. 

Estimavit  divitem  omnia  jure  recta. 

(He  thought  that  the  rich  man  was  right  in  all  that  he  did.) 
"  O,  what  a  world  of  vile  ill-favored  faults 
Looks  handsome  in  three  hundred  pounds  a  year. " 

—  Merry  Wives,  iii.  4. 
"Faults  that  are  rich  are  fair." —  Ttmon.o/ Athens,  i.  1. 
18 


274  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Nolite  confidere  in  principibus.  — Psalms  cxlvi.  3. 
(Put  not  your  trust  in  princes. ) 

*'  O,  how  wretched  is  that  poor  man  that  hangs  on  princes* 
favors, 
There  is  betwixt  that  smile  we  would  aspire  to, 
That  sweet  aspect  of  princes  and  their  ruin, 
More  pangs  and  fears  than  wars  or  women  have.** 

Henry  VHL,  iii.  2. 

Collection  of  sentences  by  Lord  Bacon:  — 

He  that  cannot  see  well,  let  him  go  softly. 

He  that  studieth  revenge  keepeth  his  wounds 
green. 

Men  of  noble  birth  are  noted  to  be  envious  tow- 
ards new  men  when  they  rise:  for  the  distance 
is  altered;  and  it  is  like  a  deceit  of  the  eye,  that 
when  others  come  on,  they  think  themselves  to  go 
back. 

In  evil,  the  best  condition  is,  not  to  will;  the 
next,  not  to  can. 

He  that  goeth  into  a  country  before  he  hath 
some  entrance  into  the  language  goeth  to  school, 
and  not  to  travel. 

In  great  place  ask  counsel  of  both  times:  of  the 
ancient  time,  what  is  best;  and  of  the  latter  time, 
what  is  fittest. 

There  is  a  great  difference  betwixt  a  cunning 
man  and  a  wise  man;  there  be  that  can  pack  the 
cards,  who  yet  cannot  play  well;  they  are  good  in 
canvasses  and  factions,  and  yet  otherwise  mean 
men. 

Extreme  self-lovers  will  set  a  man's  house  on 
fire  though  it  were  but  to  roast  their  eggs. 

You  had  better  take  for  business  a  man  some- 
what absurd  than  over-formal. 

Base  natures,  if  they  find  themselves  once  sus^ 
pected,  will  never  be  true* 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  275 

Men  ought  to  find  the  difference  between  salt- 
ness  and  bitterness.  Certainly  he  that  hath  a 
satirical  vein,  as  he  maketh  others  afraid  of  his 
wit,  so  he  hath  need  be  afraid  of  others'  memory. 

Discretion  in  speech  is  more  than  eloquence. 

Riches  are  the  baggage  of  virtue;  they  cannot 
be  spared,  nor  left  behind,  but  they  hinder  the 
march. 

Great  riches  have  sold  more  men  than  ever  they 
have  bought  out. 

He  that  defers  his  charity  till  he  is  dead  is,  if 
a  man  weighs  it  rightly,  rather  liberal  of  another 
man's  than  of  his  own. 

Ambition  is  like  choler;  if  it  can  move,  it  makes 
men  active;  if  it  be  stopped,  it  becomes  a  dust,  and 
makes  men  melancholy. 

*    To  take  a  soldier  without  ambition  is  to  pull  off 
his  spurs. 

A  man's  nature  runs  either  to  herbs  or  weeds, 
therefore  let  him  seasonably  water  the  one  and 
destroy  the  other. 

The  best  part  of  beauty  is  that  which  a  picture 
cannot  express. 

If  you  will  work  on  any  man,  you  must  either 
know  his  nature  and  fashion,  and  so  lead  him;  or 
his  ends,  and  so  persuade  him;  or  his  weaknesses 
and  disadvantages,  and  so  awe  him;  or  those  that 
have  interest  in  him,  and  so  govern  him. 

He  who  builds  a  fair  house  upon  an  ill  seat 
commits  himself  to  prison. 

Seneca  saith  well,  that  anger  is  like  rain,  which 
breaks  itself  upon  that  which  it  falls. 

High  treason  is  not  written  in  ice,  that  when 
the  body  relenteth,  the  impression  should  go  away. 

The  best  governments  are  always  subject  to  be 
like  the  fairest  crystals,  wherein  every  icicle  or 


276  BACON  AND  SnAKESPEARE 

grain  is  seen  which  in  a  fooler  stone  is  never  per- 
ceived. 

Let  states  that  aim  at  greatness  take  heed  how 
their  nobility  and  gentry  multiply  too  fast.  In 
coppice  woods,  if  you  leave  your  staddles  too  thick, 
you  shall  never  have  clean  underwood,  but  shrubs 
and  bushes. 

The  master  of  superstition  is  the  people.  And 
in  all  superstition,  wise  men  follow  fools. 

Round  dealing  is  the  honor  of  man's  nature; 
and  a  mixture  of  falsehood  is  like  alloy  in  gold 
and  silver,  which  may  make  the  metal  work  the 
better,  but  it  embaseth  it. 

It  may  be  fitly  remarked  here  that  Bacon's 
method  of  composition,  of  itself,  will  account  for 
the  rare  union  of  Truth,  Thought,  and  Beauty, 
wdiich  has  given  to  all  his  writings  their  won- 
derful predominence  over  other  authors.  The 
whole  world  of  thought,  as  it  had  been  produced 
and  elaborated  by  the  philosophers,  politicians, 
historians,  poets,  and  polemical  writers  of  former 
time,  had  been  skimmed  by  him,  and  the  cream  was 
at  his  command.  This,  interwoven  with  his  own 
thoughts,  reproduced  in  language  never  equalled 
before  or  since,  furnishes  a  rational  explanation 
for  the  most  remarkable  features  of  the  dramas. 
Not  alone  the  poetry,  but  the  wisdom  they  con- 
tained, flowed  from  this  source.  They  were  not 
the  product  of  a  single  mind,  but  as  Coleridge' 
trul}^  says,  w^ere  "myriad-minded."  No  matter 
what  the  passion,  what  the  character,  what  the 


m  THE  SONNETS.  277 

power,  what  the  mind  to  be  represented,  each 
in  itself  reflected  what  hundreds  of  philosophers, 
poets,  wits,  disputants,  orators,  had  thought  and 
uttered  hundreds  and  thousands  of  years  before. 
It  was  the  world  of  life  and  character  in  epitome. 
To  wield  this  vast  enginery  required  the  skill  and 
knowledge  of  a  competent  engineer.  No  novice  in 
science  or  art,  no  mere  genius,  however  gifted, 
nothing  less  than  an  Olympian  mind,  fully 
equipped  with  learning,  philosophy,  logic,  polem- 
ics, imagination,  and  art,  could  concentrate,  re- 
mould, transform,  re-create,  and  replace  in  living 
and  breathing  forms  of  humanity,  this  vast  assem- 
blage of  time-worn,  long-forgotten  thoughts  and 
truisms.  Such  an  engineer  was  Francis  Bacon. 
He  knew  every  pulsation,  every  breath  of  that' 
complicated  machinery,  and  held  it  in  complete 
control.  It  responded  to  his  own  impulses,  and 
love,  anger,  heroism,  tyranny,  ingratitude,  jeal- 
ousy, ambition,  wit,  humor,  imbecility,  and  hesi- 
tation flowed  from  it,  each  in  its  turn  in  a  form 
never  seen  before  or  attained  since. 

Referring  to  the  new  English  Dictionary,  now 
in  course  of  publication,  a  critic  for  the  Nation 
says:  — 

"  Every  number  will  be  to  Shakespearians  the 
cost  of  the  whole  book.  It  will  throw  a  thousand 
side-lights  on  Shakespeare^s  language  which  they 
have  always  longed  for,  but  could  never  hope 
to  behold.  How  much  of  our  vocabulary  and  its 
significance  can  be  traced  back  no  farther  than 


278  BACO^'  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

the  great  dramatist  will  be  revealed  so  clearly 
that  he  who  ruus  may  read.  Something  of  this 
disclosure  may  be  seen  in  any  fraction  of  this 
stupendous  work.  Turning  over  the  first  two 
hundred  pages  of  the  first  number,  it  will  be 
ascertained  that  one  hundred  and  forty-six  words 
are  first  found  in  Shakespeare,  either  altogether 
or  in  some  of  their  meanings.  Kome  owed  only 
one  word  to  Julius  Caesar.  The  nature  of  our 
debt  will  be  more  apparent  if  we  examine  some  of 
these  hundred  and  a  half  of  Shakespeare  words, 
all  so  near  the  beginning  of  the  alphabet  that  the 
last  of  them  is  *  air.'  We  owe  the  poet  the  first 
use  of  the  word  'air'  itself  in  one  of  its  senses 
as  a  noun,  and  in  three  as  a  verb  or  participle. 
He  first  said  '  air-drawn '  and  *  airless.' 

"  Of  the  one  hundred  and  forty-six  words  and 
meanings  first  given  us  by  Shakespeare,  at  least 
two  thirds  are  of  classical  origin.  Baconians  will 
say  that  such  a  gift  could  not  by  any  possibility 
come  from  a  man  of  *  small  Latin  and  less  Greek.' 
Others  will  enlarge  their  ideas  of  what  Ben  Jonson 
meant  by  *  small.'  The  strangest  thing  seems  to 
be,  that  so  few  of  Shakespeare's  innovations  —  not 
so  much  as  one  fifth  —  have  become  obsolete.  Ho 
gave  them  not  only  life,  but  immortality.  It 
is  perhaps  equally  noteworthy,  that  while  he  was 
never  read  so  much  as  to-day,  no  writer  before 
him  (and  scarcely  one  of  his  contemporaries), 
cited  as  authors  of  words  and  sentences,  is  now 
read  at  all  save  by  special  students." 

The  next  play  specially  referred  to  is  Cymbe- 
line,  in  the  one  hundred  and  twenty-fourth  Son- 
net.     It   is   really  remarkable   that  the   pointed 


TN  THE  SONNETS.  270 

allusions  to  the  early  life  of  Bacon  in  this  stanza 
have  escaped  the  notice  of  all  his  numerous 
biographers.  He  outlines  his  own  history  by 
supposing  a  similar  history  for  his  '*own  dear  love^' 
(his  drama),  if  that  were  but  the  "child  of  state." 
*'  It  might  in  that  case,"  he  says,  "  for  fortune's 
bastard  be  unfather'd."  Until  the  age  of  twenty, 
Bacon  had  not  known  a  want  which  was  not  im- 
mediately supplied.  His  genius  was  recognized  by 
all  who  knew  him.  Every  possible  opportunity,  at 
home  and  abroad,  that  colleges,  public  life,  diplo- 
macy, travel,  and  foreign  culture  afforded  was  given 
to  him,  and  he  made  a  good  improvement  of  them. 
AVhen  he  was  summoned  by  the  death  of  his  father 
to  return  home  from  France,  no  young  man  of  that 
age  was  more  thoroughly  accomplished  in  learn- 
ing, philosophy,  arts,  and  the  elements  of  states- 
manship. Conscious  of  his  own  powers,  next  to 
a  life  devoted  to  speculative  and  philsophical 
investigation,  of  which  he  saw  himself  deprived, 
he  was  ambitious  to  fill  some  public  position 
favorable  to  his  growth  in  knowledge  and  use- 
fulness. This  was  denied  him  by  his  uncle  and 
the  queen,  and  being  by  fortune  a  "child  of 
state,"  he  was  at  once  as  "  fortune's  bastard  un- 
father'd."  In  other  words,  he  was  a  waif  at  the 
court  of  Elizabeth,  subject  alike  to  the  caprice  of 
the  queen  and  Burleigh's  jealousy.  His  life  was 
wrecked  in  its  spring.  No  one  supplied  to  him 
the  place  of  his  father.     No  friend  at  court  took 


280  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Ihe  least  interest  in  the  development  of  his 
mighty  genius.  The  pictures  of  his  own  life  sug- 
gested to  him  the  character,  and  doubtless  the 
name,  of  Posthumus.  He,  like  Bacon,  was  "  un- 
fathered,'^ and  "  fortune's  bastard,"  subject,  like 
him,  to  "Time's  love  or  "Time's  hate,"  both  of 
which  he  experienced  at  the  hands  of  Cyrabeline 
and  Cloten,  as  Bacon  did  at  the  hands  of  Eliza- 
beth and  Burleigh.  He  was  a  "  weed  among 
weeds  "  in  his  early  life,  and  gathered  as  a  "flower 
among  flowers  "  afterwards. 

This  was  not  the  case  with  his  "  love "  (his 
drama).  That  "  was  builded  far  from  accident " 
(such  as  the  death  of  a  father).  "  It  suffbred  not 
in  smiling  pomp,"  as  Bacon  did  in  the  deceitful 
smiles  of  Burleigh  and  Cecil.  Nor  did  it  fall  un- 
der the  blows  of  "thralled  discontent,"  as  both 
Bacon  and  Posthumus  did  in  the  unkindness  of 
their  respective  sovereigns.  It  was  not,  as  those 
wlio  were  heretical  at  the  time,  obliged  to  "  work 
on  leases  of  short-number'd  hours,"  as  Bacon  was 
during  the  nights  he  devoted  to  dramatic  compo- 
sition at  Gray's  Inn.  No  more  faithful  picture  of 
the  inner  life  of  Bacon  can  be  found  in  any  of  his 
biographies.  It  leaves  us  in  no  doubt  as  to  his 
own  view  of  the  condition  in  which  he  found  him- 
self placed,  and  of  the  impossibility  of  surmount- 
ing it;  and  it  accounts  for  the  sorrowful  and  piteous 
letters  w^hich  he  addressed  to  his  uncle  and  the 
queen,  begging   to  be  relieved,  which  Macaulay 


TX  THE  SON-NETS.  281 

and  Campbell  have  been  pleased  to  cite  as  evi- 
dence of  meanness  and  servility.  They  could  not 
see  under  them  all  the  struggles  and  impatience  of 
a  great  genius  for  freedom.  They  could  not  real- 
ize the  crushed  and  humble  spirit  of  that  towering 
mind,  which,  as  he  writes  to  his  uncle,  had  ''  as 
vast  contemplative  ends  as  I  have  moderate  civil 
ends,  for  I  have  taken  all  knowledge  to  be  my 
province."  They  could  see  only  "  meanness  and 
servility"  in  that  remarkable  threat: — 

''  If  your  lordship  will  not  carry  me  on,  I  v/ill 
not  do  as  Anaxagoras  did,  who  reduced  himself 
with  contemplation  unto  voluntary  poverty;  but 
this  I  will  do,  I  will  sell  the  inheritance  that  I 
have,  and  purchase  some  lease  of  quick  revenue, 
or  some  office  of  gain  that  shall  be  executed  by 
deputy,  and  so  give  over  all  care  of  service,  and 
become  some  sorry  book-maker,  or  a  true  pioneer 

in  that  mine  of  truth  that  lies  so  deep I 

do  not  think  that  the  ordinary  practice  of  the  law, 
not  serving  the  queen  in  place,  will  be  admitted 
for  a  good  account  of  that  poor  talent  that  God 
hath  given  me;  so  as  I  make  reckoning,  I  shall 
reap  no  great  benefit  to  myself  in  that  course." 

All  the  allusions  in  the  one  hundreth  and  twenty- 
sixth  Sonnet  point  to  Hamlet  as  the  next  tragedy. 
Thou  (Truth)  is  addressed  as  he  is  illustrated  in 
the  tragedy.  First,  as  growing  by  waning,  which 
is  represented  by  the  early  experience  of  Hamlet. 
He  is  made  to  appear  as  a  young  scholar  called 
home  from  college  at  Wittenberg  by  the  death  of 


282  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

his  father.  His  mother  soon  after  is  married  to 
his  uncle,  who  thereby  succeeds  his  father  as  king 
of  Denmark.  This  hasty  marriage,  and  a  vague 
suspicion  that  some  wrong  has  been  donC)  preys 
upon  the  mind  of  Hamlet,  and  he  is  overcome  by 
grief  and  misanthropy.  He  contemplates  suicide, 
and  from  the  first  begins  to  wane  in  his  mind,  and 
this  waning  becomes  more  and  more  apparent  in 
his  character  to  the  end  of  the  play, — at  times 
putting  on  a  form  of  qualified  derangement.  This 
is  undoubtedly  what  is  meant  by  telling  Truth 
that  he  has  **  by  waning  grown."  In  the  progress, 
it  is  shown  that  the  lovers  Hamlet  and  Ophelia 
became  estranged.  Their  love  is  finally  terminated, 
and  Ophelia  is  first  crazed,  then  drowned.  Thy 
(Thought)  has  shown  his  "  lovers'  withering,'' 
while  lie  is  still  growing  as  the  tragedy  progresses. 
Nature  all  this  while,  who,  despite  the  efi'orts  of 
Truth  and  Thought  to  save  the  mind  and  wits  of 
Hamlet,  "  is  the  sovereign  mistress  over  wrack," 
and  is  gradually  unhinging  that  mind.  He  is  in- 
tent upon  the  vengeance  directed  by  his  father's 
spirit,  but  as  he  *'goes  onward"  to  inflict  it,  is 
still  "  plucked  back,"  and  restrained  by  doubts, 
cowardice,  and  spiritual  considerations.  Some- 
thing in  his  own  mind  always  steps  between  him 
and  his  purpose,  to  the  very  end  of  the  play.  Na- 
ture, meantime,  shows  "  her  skill "  in  disgracing 
the  time,  by  continuing  the  guilty  love  of  Claudius 
and  Gertrude,  the  death  of  Polonius  and  Ophelia, 


7iV  THE  SONNETS.  283 

the  treachery  of  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern, 
and  the  criminal  designs  of  the  king  upon  the  life 
of  Hamlet,  and  thus  kills  the  "  wretched  moments," 
which  finally  end  in  the  violent  death  of  all.  She 
has  detained,  but  not  kept,  Hamlet,  "  and  her  qui- 
etus was  to  render  thee,"  to  finally  kill  him.  The 
motive  wliich  instigated  Claudius  to  murder  his 
brother  is  so  fully  described  in  the  one  hundred 
and  twenty-ninth  Sonnet  that  it  needs  no  inter- 
pretation. 

Following  the  narrative,  it  appears  that  the  suc- 
cessive appearance  of  the  tragedies  excited  an  eager 
spirit  of  emulation  in  contemporary  playwrights; 
and  that  some  of  them  had  chosen  their  heroes 
from  the  colored  races.  In  the  one  hundred  and 
twenty-seventh  stanza  he  writes:  ''Now  is  black 
beauty's  successive  heir."  These  writers  had  in 
his  opinion  failed  in  their  attempts  to  delineate 
character  truthfully.  Beauty  was  slandered  by 
them,  and  nature  disfigured  by  art.  "  Therefore," 
he  says,  '*  My  Mistress'  brows  are  raven  black," 
equivalent  to  saying,  "  I  will  see  what  I  can  make 
of  a  black  character."  Othello  was  the  product  of 
this  determination.  This  tragedy,  as  clearly  ap- 
pears from  the  criticisms  he  bestowed  upon  it 
w^liile  in  progress,  was  his  most  difficult  and  best 
approved  performance.  It  was  longer  time  in 
composition,  and  the  complexion  he  had  chosen  for 
his  hero  made  him  doubtful  of  its  success,  though 
he  says:  "  Thy  black  is  fairest  in  my  judgment's 


284  BACON  AND  SEAKE3PBARE 

place."  While  engaged  in  composing  it,  he  con- 
trasted it  with  the  plays  of  other  writers,  depict- 
ing their  ineffectual  efforts  to  imitate  him,  and  the 
absurdity  of  their  comparisons.  His  criticisms 
upon  different  scenes  in  the  tragedy  are  alluded  to 
in  the  one  hundred  and  twenty-seventh,  one  hun- 
dred and  thirtieth,  one  hundred  and  thirty-first, 
one  hundred  and  thirty-second,  one  hundred  and 
thirty-seventh,  one  hundred  and  thirty-eighth,  one 
hundred  and  thirty-ninth,  one  hundred  and  for- 
tieth, one  hundred  and  forty-first,  one  hundred 
and  forty-second,  and  one  hundred  and  forty-third 
Sonnets,  which  are  interpreted  in  the  poem. 

The  choice  of  a  subject  for  his  next  tragedy  was 
probably  suggested  by  a  desire  to  please  King 
James.  It  was  Macbeth,  the  first  and  only  drama 
for  which  the  subject  was  chosen  from  Scottish 
history.  He  had  glorified  England  by  a  repro- 
duction of  the  "War  of  the  Roses."  Some  of  his 
best  productions  were  located  in  Italy.  Denmark 
and  Bohemia  had  been  honored  each  with  a  drama, 
but  the  Scotch  were  entirely  neglected.  While 
Elizabeth  lived  it  would  have  been  imprudent  to 
introduce  a  play  of  Scottish  origin,  as  her  fears  all 
came  from  that  quarter,  but  nothing  could  be  more 
acceptable  to  James.  The  time,  not  less  than  the 
subject,  was  well  chosen.  The  union  between 
Scotland,  Ireland  and  England,  so  long  the  cause 
of  unhappy  differences  between  those  countries, 
had  been  happily  effected  by  the  succession  of 


m  THE  SONNETS,  285 

James.  He  had  been  four  years  on  the  English 
throne  when  the  tragedy  appeared.  A  flattering 
allusion  was  made  to  the  union  by  a  symbol  seen 
by  Macbeth  in  some  of  the  kings  of  **  Banquo's 
time/'  which  passed  in  vision  before  him  on  bis 
visit  to  the  witches, — 

"And  some  I  see, 
That  twofold  balls,  and  trebled  sceptres  carry." 

A  belief  in  witchcraft  pervaded  all  classes  at 
this  time.  King  James  in  1597  had  published  a 
work  on  Demonologie,  at  Edinburgh,  which  after 
his  succession  to  Elizabeth,  was  reprinted  in  Lon- 
don. In  the  preface  he  reminds  the  reader  of  the 
''  fearful  abounding  in  this  country  of  these  de- 
testable slaves  of  the  devil,  the  witches  or  en- 
chanters." The  writer  of  Macbeth  had  no  faith 
in  the  infallibility  of  witchcraft.  It  is  not  im- 
probable that  he  intended  by  this  tragedy  to 
indirectly  compliment  King  James's  book,  by  de- 
picting the  terrible  consequences  of  a  reliance 
upon  the  fortune-telling  jugglers  of  this  period. 
No  moral  essay  on  the  subject  could  have  more 
fearfully  predicted  them  than  this  great  tragedy. 
A  law  had  been  passed  during  the  first  year  of  the 
reign  of  James  on  the  English  throne,  punishing 
witchcraft  in  all  its  forms  with  death.  In  the 
Sonnet,  as  in  the  drama,  Bacon  treats  it  as  a  delu- 
sion, but  makes  Macbeth  obey  it  as  a  divine  com- 
mand. "  Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of 
dross,"  is  the  last  of  all  the  fugitive  consolations 


286  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEAnE 

ho  recommends  to  Macbeth,  when  his  castle  is 
besieged,  and  his  capture  and  death  assured.  His 
own  idea  of  fortune-telling  and  astrology  is  very 
plainly  described  in  the  fourteenth  Sonnet. 

Next  to  Macbeth,  as  appears  from  the  Sonnets, 
Bacon  composed  Antony  and  Cleopatra.  This  was 
his  last  dramatic  labor.  This  tragedy  was  prob- 
ably completed  in  1G07,  —  the  year  that  Bacon 
received  the  appointment  of  solicitor-general.  We 
are  thus  brought  to  the  close  of  this  remarkable 
allegorical  history  of  his  career  as  the  writer  of  the 
plays  attributed  to  Shakespeare.  Let  us  briefly 
summarize  what  it  has  taught  us: — 

1.  It  contains  a  cipher,  or  key  of  words,  —  very 
simple,  easy  of  comprehension,  and  unfailing 
through  all  the  stanzas  from  the  first  to  the  last. 
It  is  impossible  to  resist  the  idea  that  Thou 
means  Truth;  Thy,  Thought;  and  You,  Beauty. 
These  are  the  three  allegorical  characters  whose 
aid  Bacon  constantly  invokes  in  the  creation  of 
the  impersonation  he  calls  "  My  Love,"  which 
answers  completely  to  the  title,  "  My  Drama,''  or 
*'  My  Dramas.''  The  impersonation  "  My  Friend  " 
is  only  used  on  two  occasions,  —  twice  in  the 
forty-second  Sonnet,  to  signify  the  transfer  of 
"  My  Love  "  to  him,  and  three  times  in  the  one 
hundred  and  thirty-second  Sonnet,  where  owner- 
ship and  authorship  are  abandoned  and  made" 
over  to  him.  "  My  Mistress  "  appears  in  the  one 
hundred  and  twenty-seventh  stanza  as  descriptive 


m  THE  SONNETS,  287 

of  Othello,  and  is  described  in  the  light  of  false 
comparison  in  the  one  hundred  and  thirtieth, 
and  as  the  only  spring  which  will  cure  his  love  in 
the  one  hundred  and  fifty-third  and  one  hundred 
and  fifty-fourth;  but  her  character  adapts  itself  to 
all  the  tragedies  that  he  wrote,  and  by  allusion 
and  allegory,  appears  as  if  a  part  of  each  one. 
Hence  she  answers  to  the  name  of  Tragedy.  All 
other  ciphers  are  single,  and  easily  understood. 
The  entire  poem  is  so  perfectly  sustained  in 
its  allegorical  illustration  and  expression  that  it 
forms  one  grand  cipher;  every  form  of  meta- 
phor and  metonymy,  the  loftiest  imagination, 
the  subtlest  induction,  the  profoundest  philoso- 
phy, are  used  to  conceal,  and  yet  contain,  the 
great  secret  of  the  authorship  of  the  dramas  at- 
tributed to  Shakespeare.  The  poem,  for  the  pur- 
poses intended  by  the  author,  is  a  masterpiece, 
without  a  rival  or  an  imitation  in  English  litera- 
ture. 

2.  From  the  first  to  the  eighteenth  Sonnets,  in 
the  reasons  addressed  to  Thou,  Thy,  and  You,  as 
the  respective  representatives  of  Truth,  Thought, 
and  Beauty,  and  to  tlie  gifts  of  nature  (all  of  which 
he  claims  as  parts  of  himself),  we  learn  why  ho 
was  induced  to  engage  in  the  illustration  of  life  in 
character.  He  reasons  with  himself  through  the 
medium  of  each  separate  element  of  his  genius, 
and  treating  each  as  a  laggard,  persuades  all  to 
engage  in  the  production  of  some  great  labor, 
which  shall  win  for  him  an  immortal  name. 


288  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

3.  From  the  eighteenth  to  the  eighty-seventh, 
the  period  of  his  first  labors  as  an  author  arc  de- 
scribed. He  is  satisfied  that  his  work  will  live. 
His  outcast  state,  disappointments,  and  sorrows 
are  depicted  in  contrast  with  the  delight  he  expe- 
riences in  writing.  His  methods  of  composition, 
and  hours  devoted  to  it,  the  places  where  he 
writes,  his  careful  concealment  of  his  tables  and 
manuscripts,  his  discontent  during  his  hours  of 
enforced  absence,  are  described.  The  nature  of 
his  arrangement  with  Shakespeare,  the  interest  he 
has  in  the  avails  flowing  from  it,  the  relationship 
they  are  to  bear  to  each  other,  his  delight  on 
seeing  the  dramas  in  theatrical  representation, 
his  opinion  of  imitators  and  contemporary  play- 
wrights, his  daily  attendance  upon  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, are  all  distinctly  set  forth.  He  tells  his  name; 
alludes  to  the  work  he  contemplates  doing  in  phi- 
losophy; describes  the  enigmatical  dedication  of 
the  Sonnets;  announces  his  intention  soon  to 
abandon  writing  for  a  public  position;  alludes  to 
a  rival  poet;  sees  his  own  lines  in  another's  work. 

4.  From  eighty-seventh  to  one  hundred  and 
seventh:  he  bids  farewell  to  dramatic  composition, 
to  engage  in  an  effort  to  obtain  a  public  position. 
His  fears  lest  he  should  be  discovered  as  a  play- 
wright are  fully  portrayed  in  the  eighty-eighth, 
eighty-ninth,  and  ninetieth  stanzas.  He  invokes" 
his  own  powers  and  Shakespeare  in  the  strongest 
terms  not  to  betray  him;  he  is  tortured  with  en- 


m  THE  SONNETS.  2S9 

nui,  and  finds  fault  with  the  poetry  of  his  contem- 
poraries; tells  wherein  it  is  unnatural;  calls  upon 
his  Muse  to  resume  labor;  rewrites  the  poem  of 
"  Lucrece/'  which  was  composed  three  years  be- 
fore; compares  it  favorably  with  other  poems. 

5.  From  one  hundred  and  seventh  to  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty-fourth:  he  intimates  the  defeat 
of  his  hopes  in  the  one  hundred  and  nineteenth 
Sonnet,  and  his  delight  at  being  able  to  re-engage 
in  dramatic  composition;  his  dramas  look  fresh; 
neither  his  fears  that  he  might  be  betrayed,  nor 
the  prophecy  that  he  would  be  elected,  now  that 
he  is  defeated,  can  prevent  his  return  to  his  love; 
Queen  Elizabeth  is  dead,  and  James  I.  is  king;  his 
prospects  are  improved;  the  times  are  better;  he 
confesses  his  errors;  refers  to  his  essays,  preferring 
Lis  dramas;  depicts  his  disappointments,  and  his 
determination  in  future,  in  the  tragedy  of  Timon; 
follows  Timon  with  Lear,  and  Lear  with  the  Tem- 
pest; resents  the  charge  of  plagiarism;  destroys  his 
collections  of  thoughtful  sayings,  and  the  tables 
on  which  his  own  thoughts  are  written;  writes 
Cymbeline;  depicts  his  own  life  in  the  character  of 
Posthumus;  writes  Hamlet;  follows  it  with  Othello, 
which  he  criticises  closely,  and  pronounces  it  his 
best  tragedy;  ridicules  the  writers  who  attempt  to 
imitate  him;  abandons  the  authorship  and  prop- 
erty of  the  dramas  to  Shakespeare,  and  devises 
methods  for  his  own  concealment;  writes  Macbeth, 
which  is  followed  by  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  his 
19 


290  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

last   dramatic   production;    names    his    Mistress 
(Tragedy)  as  the  only  cure  for  his  love. 

Anticipating  that  the  time  would  soon  arrive, 
when,  by  a  change  in  his  position,  and  perhaps  a 
desire  to  devote  his  leisure  to  his  great  philosophi- 
cal treatise,  the  Novum  Organum  (already  in  pro- 
gress), Bacon,  as  appears  in  the  one  hundred  and 
thirty-third,  one  hundred  and  thirty-fourth,  one 
hundred  and  thirty-fifth,  and  ono  hundred  and 
thirty-sixth  Sonnets,  abandoned  all  his  interest  in 
the  dramas  in  favor  of  Shakespeare,  under  the 
strongest  injunctions  of  secrecy.  That  he  regretted 
this  sacrifice  is  everywhere  apparent  in  the  Son- 
nets; but  he  could  see  no  other  method  of  avoiding 
discovery,  and  attaining  to  the  public  honors  now 
almost  within  his  grasp.  Thenceforward  his  rise 
in  public  life  was  rapid.  He  held  the  office  of 
solicitor-general  until  1613.  He  was  then  ap- 
pointed attorney-general,  which  office  he  held 
until  his  elevation  to  the  lord  chancellorship  in 
1617.  In  1621  he  was  tried  and  found  guilty  of 
bribery  by  his  peers,  expelled  from  his  office,  sen- 
tenced to  pay  a  fine  of  forty  thousand  pounds,  im- 
prisoned in  the  tower,  and  declared  "incapable  of 
holding  any  office  of  trust,  honor,  or  employment.'* 
The  king  pardoned  him.  He  was  released  from 
imprisonment  in  a  day  or  two,  the  fine  was  re- 
mitted, and  before  his  death  all  the  disabilities  of 
his  sentence  were  removed.  Unbroken  in  spirit, 
he  continued  through  all  these  changes  to  pursue 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  291 

his  philosophical  investigations  with  unflagging 
zeal  and  energy.  The  great  works  bearing  his 
name  are  the  result  of  these  labors.  He  died  in 
1626. 

In  1623,  seven  years  after  the  death  of  Shake- 
speare, the  dramas  in  revised  form  were  published 
in  a  folio  under  the  apparent  superintendence  of 
Hemings  and  Condell,  two  former  associates  of 
Shakespeare.  Many  changes  were  made  in  the 
plays  by  addition  and  suppression,  which  were 
claimed  to  be  corrections  from  original  copies. 
No  suspicion  of  the  authorship  existing,  they  es- 
caped public  scrutiny  at  the  time,  and  have  been 
received  by  all  ages  since,  until  the  present,  as  the 
undoubted  works  of  William  Shakespeare.  Those 
of  our  readers  who  receive  as  true  the  interpreta- 
tion herein  given  of  the  Sonnets  will  have  no 
doubt  that  the  folio  was  published  under  the  care- 
ful supervision  of  Lord  Bacon,  and  that  all  the 
changes,  emendations,  suppressions,  and  additions 
were  made  by  him.  Those  who  believe  or  think 
differently  cannot  be  convinced  without  more  posi- 
tive evidence.     We  leave  the  subject  there. 


T\r[LLIA3I    SHAKESPEAKE. 


Conjecture,  tradition,  and  fable  have  Deen  busy 
for  the  past  two  hundred  and  seventy  years  in  fab- 
ricating a  life  for  William  Shakespeare.  Eelieved 
of  those  three  elements,  the  facts  in  that  life  could 
be  told  on  a  single  page  of  foolscap.  It  would  con- 
tain nothing  suggestive  of  uncommon  genius  or 
ability.  By  adding  to  the  grains  of  truth  found 
in  the  biographies  of  commentators  such  facts  as 
are  disclosed  in  the  Sonnets,  we  learn  that  he  was  a 
wild,  uncultivated  young  man  in  Stratford,  clever 
in  his  own  conceit,  full  of  life  and  frolic,  ready  to 
join  in  any  boyish  mischief,  and  careless  of  its  re- 
sults. He  was  no  worse  than  nine  tenths  of  the 
young  men  who  permit  themselves  to  be  swayed 
by  passion  and  a  love  of  notoriety.  "Whatever  the 
motive  that  induced  him  to  go  to  London,  certain 
it  is,  that  on  his  arrival  there,  he  abandoned  his 
reckless  habits  and  addressed  himself  to  business. 
How  he  became  acquainted  with  Lord  Bacon,  or 
why  he  was  selected  to  father  his  dramas,  we 
leave  to  conjecture.  Some  peculiarity  of  his  life 
prompted  Bacon  to  make  an  arrangement  with 


294  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

him  by  means  whereof  his  plays  were  represented 
in  the  theatre,  Shakespeare  recognized  as  their  au- 
thor, and  Bacon  a  joint  sharer  in  the  avails  they 
produced. 

As  we  read  the  character  of  Shakespeare  in  the 
Sonnets,  he  was  entirely  uncultivated,  but  true, 
honest,  faithful,  and  thrifty,  and  at  the  time  he 
became  known  to  Bacon,  a  share-holder  in  Black- 
friars  Theatre,  and  a  general  favorite  among  his 
fellow-actors  and  play-writers.  He  was  also  suffi- 
ciently familiar  with  managerial  methods  to  adapt 
the  plays  to  the  stage,  and  was  intrusted  with  that 
service  by  Bacon.  He  kept  his  promise  to  Bacon 
of  entire  secrecy  from  the  moment  of  their  ac- 
qaintance  in  1590,  and  died  with  it  undivulged  in 
1G16.  The  dramas  were  written  during  the  first 
twenty  years  of  that  period.  Shakespeare,  mean- 
time, acquired  a  handsome  property,  and  soon 
after  Bacon  ceased  to  write  in  1609,  retired  to  his 
native  village  to  enjoy  it. 

Very  little  is  known  about  the  closing  years  of 
his  life.  He  was  careful  of  his  estate,  and  a  suc- 
cessful business  man.  Divested  of  the  falsities 
with  which  a  veneration  for  his  supposed  writings 
Lave  endowed  his  memory,  and  viewed  only  as  a 
plain  man  of  the  world,  there  is  nothing  re- 
proachful in  the  lawful  methods  he  employed  to 
collect  the  debts  justly  owing  to  him,  nor  is  it  very 
strange  or  criminal  that  he  should  have  purchased 
his  family  memorials  at  the  Herald's  ofiBce.     The 


/iV  THE  SONITETS,  295 

Sonnets  give  him  the  credit  of  being  kind  and  just, 
and  his  contemporary  playwrights  all  express  the 
highest  respect  for  his  memory.  Bacon  exoner- 
ates him  from  all  original  design  in  the  plan  and 
arrangement  by  which  he  became  known  as  the 
author  of  the  plays,  and  takes  the  blame  entirely 
to  himself. 

The  cause  of  his  death,  usually  assigned,  rests 
upon  tradition,  and  may  or  may  not  be  true. 
There  is  nothing  very  remarkable  about  it.  He 
had  been  an  actor  and  stage  manager.  His  life 
had  been  passed  among  convival  companions,  who 
drank,  sang,  and  had  their  hours  of  mirth  and 
hilarity.  If  his  excesses,  while  enjoying  a  visit 
from  Jonson  and  Drayton,  produced  a  fever  of 
which  he  died,  it  is  quite  as  reasonable,  and  much 
more  charitable,  to  infer  that  it  was  the  effect  of 
violence  to  his  abstemiousness  rather  than  to  his 
inordinate  love  of  liquor.  Whatever  the  cause, 
he  died  at  the  age  of  fifty-one,  in  April,  1616,  and 
was  buried  in  Stratford  church,  where,  protected 
by  the  objurgatory  lines  on  his  tomb,  his  body 
doubtless  long  ago  crumbled  back  to  its  mother 
earth. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  history  revealed  in  the 
Sonnets  which  requires  a  more  elaborate  biogra- 
phy of  Shakespeare.  None  of  the  numerous  tra- 
ditions, conjectures,  and  fables  which  have  been 
accepted  as  events  by  commentators  and  critics 
during  the  past  270  years  are  of  the  least  impor- 


296  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE. 

taiice,  unless  he  was  the  true  author  of  the  works 
bearing  his  name.  With  that  established  as  a 
fact,  they  are  invaluable;  because  everything  re- 
lating to  him  would  then  be  invaluable.  In  a 
discussion  of  his  claims  to  the  authorship  of  the 
dramas,  they  serve  only  to  mislead  and  bewilder, 
while  they  prove  nothing  but  the  devotion  and 
energy  of  those  who  wrote  them.  Shakespeare's 
memory  has  been  defamed  and  exalted  by  them. 
The  same  writers  who  assign  to  him  the  foremost 
place  in  literature  give  him  an  infamous  personal 
character.  If  the  Sonnets  are  true  as  lierein  in- 
terpreted, both  these  conclusions  are  false,  and 
William  Shakespeare,  averaged  with  the  men  of 
his  age,  was  better  than  the  most  of  them. 


ADDEI^DA. 


Several  passages  in  the  Sonnets  would  seem  to 
indicate  that  Bacon  cliose  Shakespeare  as  his  rep- 
resentative because  of  his  capacity  for  money  get- 
ting and  his  literary  deficiencies.  Shakespeare 
was  a  share-holder  in  Blackfriars  Theatre  in  three 
years  after  he  came  to  London.  He  could  be 
safely  trusted  as  a  financier.  Ignorant  in  a  liter- 
ary sense,  and  unconscious  of  any  ability  as  a 
writer,  he  indulged  no  higher  ambition  than  to 
achieve  a  competency  and  return  to  Stratford. 
Critics  and  commentators  all  regard  his  utter  in- 
difference to  the  dramas,  and  his  inordinate  love 
of  money,  as  the  most  unaccountable  features  of 
his  character.  They  treat  those  defects  patheti- 
cally, and  offer  apologies  for  them  which  would  be 
scorned  if  offered  in  behalf  of  any  man  but  Shake- 
speare. 

Money  and  ignorance  were  what  Bacon  needed 
in  a  representative.  The  first  was  a  necessity  of 
his  life;  the  last  of  his  safety.  Both  were  assured 
in  Shakespeare.  He  could  not  have  trusted  the 
dramas  to  men  of  culture  like  Ben  Jonson,  Peele, 


298  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

Mario w,  or  Green,  for  fear  of  interpolations  or 
suggestions.  Shakespeare  saw  nothing  in  them 
for  himself  but  money.  The  fame  never  entered 
his  mind.  If  it  did,  he  abandoned  it  for  the 
wealth  he  could  not  otherwise  have  acquired.  It 
was  through  that  ignorance  and  indifference  that 
they  were  preserved  in  the  form  in  which  they 
were  written. 

The  remarkable  passage  in  Bacon's  will  leaving 
*4iis  name  and  memory  to  men's  charitable 
speeches,  to  foreign  nations,  and  to  the  next  ages," 
and  the  equally  remarkable  lines  on  Shakespeare's 
tomb  forbidding  the  removal  of  his  remains,  are 
enigmas  in  the  history  of  each  which  no  com- 
mentator has  been  able  to  solve.  Why  should 
either  of  them  have  been  written?  If  there  was 
nothing  more  to  revere  Bacon  for  than  the  great 
works  which  bore  his  name,  which  name,  when  he 
died,  was  more  revered  than  any  other  in  the 
world  of  letters,  what  was  there  for  "foreign 
nations  or  the  next  ages"  to  do  which  would  add 
to  his  fame?  They  could  not  wipe  away  his  stains, 
nor  add  to  his  renown.  Both  were  history.  But 
if  they  should  discover  that  to  his  philosophical 
works  the  great  dramas  must  be  added,  they 
would  receive  that  great  '^name  and  memory"  as 
the  grandest  bequest  ever  bestowed  by  man  upon 
his  race;  they  would  be  charitable  to  his  errors 
and  exalt  his  fame  in  all  nations. 

So  of  Shakespeare,  who  died  the  recognized  and 


m  THE  SOIiTNETS.  299 

accepted  author  of  the  dramas.  Why  should  he 
have  a  curse  upon  his  tomb  for  any  one  who 
ventured  to  remove  his  remains  to  Westminster 
Abbey?  Was  not  this  also  attributable  to  the 
calm  foresight  of  Bacon?  He  saw  that  a  time 
would  come,  in  his  own  or  a  foreign  land,  when 
the  world  would  know  and  acknowledge  him  as 
the  author  of  the  dramas.  He  knew  that  when 
that  occurred,  if  Shakespeare's  remains  had  been 
removed  to  Westminster  Abbey,  it  would  be  re- 
garded as  an  impious  profanity,  by  both  him  and 
Shakespeare,  of  the  great  national  mausoleum  of 
England's  worthies,  and  blacken  his  name  and 
memory  forever.  He  determined  that  neither 
should  repose  there.  Hence  the  pathetic  reason 
given  in  his  will  for  requesting  that  his  own 
burial  should  be  in  St.  Michael's  Church,  within 
the  limits  of  Old  Verulam.  **  There,"  he  says, 
"  was  my  mother  buried." 

It  is  a  curious  fact  in  the  lives  of  both  Bacon 
and  Shakespeare,  that  no  avowed  knowledge  of 
each  other  appears  in  their  authenticated  works. 
How  could  it  be  possible  for  two  such  men  to 
dwell  in  the  same  city  twenty-six  years,  and  be 
engaged  in  writing  on  cognate  subjects,  without 
some  sort  of  mutual  recognition?  Difference  in 
social  life  might  prove  an  obstacle  to  personal  ac- 
quaintance, but  could  it,  by  any  possibility,  make 
them  strangers  to  each  other's  writings  ?  Would 
those  grand  creations  of  Hamlet,  Othello,  Macbeth, 


300  BACOK  AND  SHAKESPEARE 

and  Tim  on  escape  the  philosophical  acumen  of  so 
keen  an  observer  of  life  and  manners  as  Bacon  ? 
Would  not  Shakespeare,  with  his  love  of  nature 
and  truth,  have  sought  and  found  more  than 
appears  in  his  imputed  works,  in  the  Essays 
and  De  Augmentis,  to  enrich  his  soliloquies?  Yet 
neither  mentions  the  name  of  the  other,  or  quotes 
a  single  passage  from  his  works.  One  would  not 
know  from  the  works  of  the  other  that  he  had  ever 
lived,  yet  each  in  his  line  was  the  most  remark- 
able man  of  that  remarkable  age.  Neither  failed 
of  admirers  in  his  contemporaries,  but  of  Shake- 
speare it  may  be  truly  said,  that,  aside  from  the 
dedications  of  "Venus  and  Adonis"  and  '' Lu- 
crece,"  he  never  bestowed  a  word  of  praise  or 
blame  upon  any  one.  Bacon  loved  the  drama, 
treated  of  it  philosophically,  and  it  is  believed  by 
many,  contemplated  in  one  part  of  the  Novum 
Organum  to  employ  it  in  the  illustration  of  life  in 
character.  He  was  on  terms  of  social  intimacy 
with  Ben  Jonson,  who  often  acted  as  his  amanu- 
ensis, and  under  his  direction  translated  many  of 
his  works  into  Latin.  Did  Bacon  and  Shakespeare 
slight  each  other  ?  or  was  it  pure  oversight  that 
each  escaped  the  other's  notice  ? 

It  would  be  surprising  that  the  key  to  this  poem 
had  not  been  discovered  two  centuries  ago  if  Ba- 
con was  at  that  time  suspected  of  its  authorship. 
That  he  was  not  renders  the  discovery  all  the  more 
interesting  and  valuable  now,  as  it  gives  an  intel- 


IN  THE  SONNETS.  301 

ligible  meaning  to  those  allegorical  passages  which 
have  so  long  stained  the  memory  of  Shakespeare. 
Whatever  the  errors  of  Bacon,  his  private  charac- 
ter was  irreproachable.  He  had  no  adventures  to 
tell,  no  impurities  to  confess.  His  life  was  di- 
vided between  his  public  duties  and  his  closet 
studies.  With  the  key  to  unlock  his  meaning,  it 
is  not  necessary  to  expose  the  gallantries  and 
irregularities  of  any  of  the  young  noblemen  of 
Elizabeth's  court  to  find  one  whom  ^'Thou,"  in 
all  his  tergiversations  will  fit.  The  simple  word 
"  Truth  "  answers  to  every  charge,  and  makes  a 
plain  narrative  of  that  which  in  any  other  view  is 
inexplicable.  Neither  is  it  necessary  to  reveal 
the  frailties  of  any  of  the  noble  ladies  of  that  day 
to  find  a  counterpart  for  "You"  and  "  My  Love," 
when  Beauty  is  so  clearly  signified  by  one  and 
"  My  dramas "  by  the  other.  Nor  is  there  any 
need  that  poor  Will  Shakespeare,  a  man  doubt- 
less not  without  faults  like  other  men,  should 
confess  to  an  indulgence  and  excess  of  passion  so 
infamously  mean,  that  the  great  memory  he  bears 
scarcely  saves  him  from  universal  execration. 
"My  Love,''  "Thy,"  and  "My  Friend"  are  the 
only  terms  by  which  he  can  be  recognized  in  the 
poem.  Then  there  is  "  My  Mistress,"  that  black, 
diabolical  woman  of  whom  it  is  written, — 

"For  I  have  sworn  thee  fair  and  thought  thee  bright, 
Who  art  as  black  as  hell,  as  dark  as  night. " 

When  you  call  her  Tragedy,  all  the  mystery  which 


302  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE. 

enshrouds  her  life  disappears,  and  the  story  in 
allegory  is  fully  revealed.  The  symbols,  com- 
parisons, metaphors,  correspondences,  and  allu- 
sions become  instinct  with  meaning.  Events  are 
told  as  they  occur,  experiences  as  they  are  realized. 
Disappointments  are  explained,  and  sorrows  faith- 
fully depicted,  and  all  are  conformable  to  the  life 
and  character  of  Bacon,  whose  name  appears  as  a 
guaranty  of  their  truth.  There  are  but  four  per- 
sons who  ever  lived  alluded  to  in  the  poem:  Bacon, 
Shakespeare,  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  another  poet; 
all  the  others  are  allegorical.     What  more  ? 


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